Starlight
by CleotheDreamer
Summary: When Peter was 9-years-old he became friends with a monster. He was sixteen when it returned. OR, a look into the various times Skip Westcott haunts Peter Parker's life.
1. Chemistry Equations

**Summary: When Peter was 9-years-old he became friends with a monster. He's sixteen when it returns. OR, the various times Skip Westcott haunts Peter Parker's life.**

**AN: This is based off a comic that was issued in the 80's to spread awareness on child sexual abuse. In the comics, the only reason Peter tells his aunt and uncle what's happening is because they sit him down and ask him why he's being weird. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I feel that, without that prompting, it's very possible he would have never told anyone. In this universe, his aunt and uncle never ask him what's wrong. I will be using my own experiences and emotional reactions to help but I'm going to try to keep Peter as close to the MCU Peter as possible with the added problems that come when one's dealing with a childhood rapist. I only say this because fics that deal with this topic often characterize those who've dealt with sexual abuse incorrectly or unrealistically. That isn't to say there aren't tons of incredibly well done fics dealing with this issue, but I'm using my emotional journey to aid in writing the behavior of Peter throughout this fic because if I had these responses it is likely that he may have similar ones too.**

**So, please, please, please, know that if it seems unrealistic to you and your only knowledge of this issue is from the internet and not firsthand experience do not tell me that what I'm writing is wrong or idealistic. Not every person experiencing abuse turns into a broken shell, and often the repression of childhood abuse leads to certain issues with touch and strangers and random triggers, but does not necessarily lead to a dramatic manifestation of depression or psychosis.**

**I'm not saying that I will be incredible at representing this issue as even experience of an issue does not make one a good writer of that issue. I just don't want anyone to think I'm being stereotypical or even idealistic, though if it comes across that way I apologize!**

**A.K.A, your seemingly Average Joe could totally have had a traumatic childhood. People deal with shit differently and can often force themselves to acclimate socially so as to avoid drawing light to their past traumas.**

**Also, I've always believed that Peter would not be one to take abuse (aka, the abusive boyfriend trope would not work except in extreme circumstances) but, this does not mean he won't be able to be manipulated by a past abuser. For example, if I were to come into my past abuser I would most likely freeze but I, a survivor of sexual abuse, have also been approached in abusive ways and was always able to stand up for myself because I am older and not facing the perpetrator of my past trauma.**

**There's a difference when it comes to dealing with past abusers for literally everyone. I don't expect anyone could come in contact with their childhood rapist and stand up for themselves like they might with literally anyone else. (Not that people can't stand up to their past abusers, but that it would be different than facing new perpetrators who haven't contributed to a major trauma yet.**

**BLANKET WARNINGS: This fic will deal with past and present sexual abuse, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and curse words.**

**Any new warnings will posted at the top of the chapter they pertain to as they pop up. The abuse will be described but not detailed so it will be non-graphic and NOT FOR SMUT.**

**Not kink-shaming or anything, but this is CHILD sexual abuse that I'm dealing with, soooo...**

**UPDATES: My updates will usually be once every two or less unless I have a health complication. I am struggling with a lot of health problems right now and will always try to get my chapters out in under three weeks at the latest.**

* * *

_Starlight peeks through clouds and we call it the sun_

_What is so different about this brighter being besides closeness?_

_What is there in a touch of heat that makes it burn?_

* * *

The first time he finds a friend that appreciates him, he's nine years old.

Skip finds Peter in the back of a library with his nose stuck in a book. An older boy with silver hair, he smiles in greeting. He's got a strong jaw to match his muscular shoulders and his large frame oozes confidence. His eyes are friendly and his smile wide, yet his varsity letter jacket reveals he's a high school athlete. This sets Peter on edge at first because, well, jocks were usually the people who pushed him into lockers and called him names, not send him friendly smiles in a _library._

But the other boy doesn't seem to care about his obvious nerd-status or his slight frame and oversized, cheap clothing. Not even his general (self-proclaimed) weirdness sets the older boy off and, instead of making fun of him, he waves a hand in greeting.

"Say, haven't I seen you around here before? You're the kid whose nose is always buried in a textbook!" Peter stiffens minutely, waiting for the teasing to begin, but the boy continues, cheerily, "my name's Steven Westcott, but you can call me Skip."

His eyebrows must reach the top of his forehead they're so high in surprise. The other boy, Skip, chuckles a little and Peter blushes and reaches for the proffered hand.

"U-um, hi Skip," he says, hesitantly, and the boy laughs once more, landing a strong hand on his shoulder.

"Well, what about you?" he looks at Peter expectantly, and Peter, still stuck in shock, doesn't register the question.

"What about me?" Peter replies confusedly, eyebrows coming back to furrow his forehead.

"Your name, Einstein!"

"O-oh," Peter's face turns as red as a stoplight from embarrassment, "I'm Peter, Peter Parker."

"That's a cool name, like a Superhero," he compliments and Peter smiles shyly because nobody ever likes his name (it's so simple and plain).

Skip sits down and asks about his book which just so happens to be the chemistry textbook for his sophomore class. By the end of their conversation, Peter's rambled more about chemistry than he ever has before, and Skip doesn't seem to mind. Instead, he compliments Peter profusely for his smarts and asks if they could hang out again.

Peter smiles and nods, happy for the appreciation.

And if Peter wasn't so confused and pleasantly astonished at the turn of events, he might have seen the glint of sinister intent in Skip's eyes or the way his smile was more like a leer. But Peter Parker is 9 and innocent and oh so desperate for a friend, so it's no surprise that he couldn't figure it out.

It doesn't mean he doesn't still blame himself for what happened even after all these years.

(When Peter was 9-years-old he became friends with a monster.)


	2. All the World's a Stage

**Chapter Summary:** In which it both begins and ends.

* * *

_It is a fiery thing, this burning ball of gaseous terror_

_It scalds skin, shredding dermis and revealing a nebula of trauma – a spiraling parchment of a soul_

_The closer the sun gets the more it withers down_

* * *

The first time they hangout they play with Star Wars figurines and Legos. Skip leads them through make-believe like he can bend reality to his whim. He crafts stories that swim between tangible and fantasy and Peter sometimes has to remind himself that Skip is 16 and hasn't played make-believe for years.

[Sometimes, Peter worries this is all a brilliant dream, or even that Skip is doing this out of pity. (Because who would willingly spend time with a nerdy orphan like him?)]

Skip is always in control. With him, the world feels like he built it from the ground up; it's crafted for himself with words and imagery that combine into a beautiful cacophony of chaos and order. Conversations feel like a game of leading and following, with Peter always watching – one step behind and stumbling to keep up.

Skip always plays whatever Peter wants and never makes him feel childish. They stay up later than they should and eat too much junk food, but Aunt May and Uncle Ben still think Skip's fit for babysitting Peter.

Which is exactly what happens. It doesn't even feel strange that his best friend is baby-sitting him; the dynamic stays the same and they move forward. His Aunt and Uncle begin going on more and more dates and Skip and Peter see an influx of playdates.

It's during the eighth date night and the first time they're alone for a full night sleepover that Skip brings out the magazine.

They've been best friends for five months now – but friends for even longer. So, when Skip says he wants to pick the game it's an incredible surprise that slaps him in the face with an astonishing amount of guilt. It feels like a bucket of cold water shocking his system because he goes over every playdate, every minute spent with Skip – every file in his carefully organized brain – to see if Skip has ever picked the game, or the movie, or the food, and he finds… nothing.

His brain goes through a quick shutdown. Warning signs scream violently; 'does not compute' blinks out at every corner. His mind reviews his files again but is left once more with a blaring red sign that confirms 'there is no information to suggest that Skip Westcott has ever chosen anything in this friendship'.

The guilt makes his limbs feel numb and he nods mutely, willing to do practically anything if it would make this overwhelming shame disappear.

(He'll look back and laugh hollowly at the irony that it was Skip's lack of choosing anything that leads to an event that revolves around choice – that his lack of choice made Peter believe he had no choice.

The essence of his trauma was focused on choice before he even knew its importance.)

There's a hand on his lower back that leads him to his bedroom and Skip seems to be trilling with an excited energy. It makes Peter giddy with anticipation.

(He was so, so stupid!

Stupid Peter. Stupid, stupid, _stupid _–)

There is a magazine with strange, _uncomfortable_, pictures and Peter suddenly feels nauseous. He can find no explainable reason as to why he is so scared now, but the room begins to tilt from its immensity.

He feels faint and it takes a few minutes before his mind catches up with his body.

(The bed is soft. Skip's hand is hard.

His clothes are light. Skip's hands are heavy.

The room feels crowded. His stomach feels empty.

His heart feels fast. The time goes slow.

The paper flutters noisily. His hands shake quietly.)

Skip's weight on him is a wake-up call to the wrongness of the situation. (To the wrongness of the magazine and its devastatingly terrifying contents.) Skip's eyes are heavy with an emotion Peter doesn't understand yet, but makes his skin crawl because it feels wrong, _wronguncomfortable, don't look at me like_ –

Skip's hands are over his mouth before he can voice his concerns.

"Einstein, we never do anything I want so let's play my game tonight. Let's conduct an experiment of our own! Let's see if we can touch each other like the people in this magazine. Doesn't that sound fun?"

The hands leave his mouth, and his tongue works against him before he can filter.

"Please, Skip! I don't wanna – !"

The hand is back on his mouth before he can finish the sentence. Skip's face morphs into exaggerated hurt and disappointment and Peter feels a thousand times worse so he nods, shakily. He feels he owes Skip this, he feels like a bad friend.

(And isn't he? Oh god, isn't he?)

This nod of affirmation is in no way true consent because Peter is so scared he could cry, hell he could even wet his pants – but when he looks back at this moment, all he can see is: 'Oh god, I agreed to it'.

Or in better (more harmful) words: 'I wanted it'.

(His feelings remind him that this is only happening because he never let Skip choose.

The brief logical parts of his brain surface at this and laugh because _that was the point. He was fucking making it so he could guilt trip you, you idiot! Stupid Peter and your stupid heart and –_

His emotions drown out the logic before it can ever sink in.)

Skip takes his hand off of Peter's mouth and leans in slowly, caressing Peter's cheek as he whispers into his ear, husky voice all the more chilling paired with the words it says.

"Your Aunt and Uncle will hate you if you tell them about this. This has gotta be our secret experiment, from now on. You're not allowed to tell, and if you do, you won't like what will happen. You wouldn't have _anyone_ left. This is something that stays between friends and they'll know you betrayed me if you tell. The only rule is to not tell. But all of this? It's okay. Because this is an experiment for _real _friends, not parents, and aunts and uncles. And you're my real friend, right Peter? You won't tell?"

Peter nods again, not trusting his tongue and unsure if it could form words with how heavy it feels.

(He feels like he's choking and oh _god_, he's _dying_.

He's dying and it's his fault, it's _his fault, his fault_ \- )

Skip's eyes flick back to Peter's and gaze, _hungrily?_ Yes, that's the word for it. They take in his prone form hungrily.

Peter's on his back and he's never felt more caged in and something hard is poking his leg and he's vaguely aware of the tears in his eyes, but he never says stop because _God knows_, he owes Skip this and –

He's unaware how long it takes but when it all ends – when he's left sticky and naked and oh so utterly confused and _hurt_ – Skip tells him he was a good boy and that he did so very good for him. But, the words don't send a swell of pride to his heart like they normally would and he's not left feeling like he's on cloud 9.

Instead, the words feel like a thick black smoke suffocating his soul and they crush out his first sob of the evening, broken and hysterical.

Skip helps him back into his clothes – leaving a few last lingering touches that burn his skin – before he leads them back to the living room couch.

Skip puts on a movie and acts like nothing ever happened. Peter wonders if this is normal, but he knows the fear in his heart wouldn't be there if this wasn't something very, very wrong.

But, the first thing his mind decides is that it's him that's messed up. That there must be something fundamentally screwed in his brain to think a simple game so terrifying. Because why on Earth would his best friend ever hurt him when Skip was the one who was supposed to protect him?

(His present self laughs again at the irony, humorlessly.

Why indeed?)

He cries through the movie as silently as he can and tries to ignore the sting of betrayal pinging in his heart when Skip makes no move to comfort him

His Aunt and Uncle come home at the end of the night and he doesn't tell.

He doesn't tell, he'll never tell, he _can't_ – they'll hate him, _oh god, they'll hate him._

_They'll **hate **him._

(He ignores the part of his brain that implicitly knows that they could never hate him. He ignores that it may just be himself that hates him. That he might not be telling because there is something in him that feels he might deserve this.

He ignores that they're probably the only ones who could help him because Peter's always been a strange boy. He has always been too smart for his peers and too bizarre for his teachers so he's always only ever had his Aunt and Uncle. He is a boy of loneliness and He couldn't lose them too.

There was a reason Skip was his first friend after all.)

Skip doesn't touch him again for two weeks – until it's another date night and no one will be home for hours and _oh god if he could drown in one moment for hours he has._

He's drowned in the eternity of one second a thousand times over.

It goes like this for two more years. He is a follower of a play he doesn't understand. He is a slave to a heart that beats out of his fragile, paper-thin chest. He is a shell of make-believe and fantasy laughing and crying without comprehension.

He is stuck in a confused limbo in the weeks in between. He's either irritable or depressed and his emotions feel out of his control and he just wants to know how to make his body listen to him. In the middle of the night, he wakes up to a fear so heart-stopping and all-encompassing that he thinks he knows what it's like to have a gun to his head. But he can't control it. He snaps at his Aunt May and he cries over his broken water glass and he has no idea why he can't control himself.

(Everything feels so far out of his control.)

When they're not 'experimenting', they're playing like normal and it's so different from the strangeness of the experiment that Peter can go weeks without fear and gut-churning anxiety at Skip's presence – which is not to say that he doesn't constantly think about the magazine and the touches and the _fear_, just that the fear of Skip as an entity goes away for a while. Until date night comes and he remembers and he feels ashamed because he's afraid of his best friend and why does he feel so guilty and scared and why is he frightened of his friend and _why_–

His curiosity helps him discover what's happening when he's ten – ten months after he meets Skip and four months and three date nights after the experiments start.

(One word that feels like lead on his tongue and coats his throat in acid.)

It doesn't help him understand, but at least it lets him know.

(And isn't it strange that there's such a difference between the two.)

He still doesn't tell.

It's two years and sixteen date nights later before the 'experiments' and the fear ends.

(But that's such a lie because of course he's terrified and he's thirteen but he still wets his bed from nightmares and he flinches away from unexpected touch and he spaces out for no reason and he works on projects for hours on end because he can't sleep, _he can't_, and it takes him a year after Skip leaves before he lets Ned stay the night and he's only functioning because he refuses to think about it, he can't, and now he's fourteen and his Uncle's gone and it's _his fault _and –

He's better. But he's not okay.)

It takes two years and ten months for Skip to leave. Seven of these months are spent wondering how he'd ever survived without Skip; the rest are spent wishing he had never met him.

Peter had just turned twelve when Skip leaves for college.

(He's _gone_.)

It takes almost four more years before he returns.

(When Peter turned 12-years-old he was free.

If only for a little while.)


	3. Pancakes and Panic Attacks

**Chapter Summary:** The return of a monster long lost but never once forgotten.

* * *

_The sun wilts flowers and dusts weeds_

_It crumbles the ground to ash beneath our feet_

_The closer the star, the harsher the heat_

* * *

Peter Parker was having a great day.

Flash was sick, classes were good, Spider-Man just had a breakthrough on a serial killer and he'd webbed up the culprit the previous night. And, to top it all off, he had made it to Decathlon practice that day with 30 seconds to spare (which was, quite frankly, very impressive for him).

It was suspicious, to say the least, but he shrugged it off. It was no use looking a gift horse in the mouth (though he still had no idea what that phrase even meant). He knew by now that good times were hard to come by and especially ones so long-lasting. Times like these were usually followed by a catastrophe in the Parker household.

God knows how happy they had been before the spider bite.

So, when he arrived at his apartment after school to a tingling spider-sense and a flash of familiar silver hair, he thought it was entirely rational that his first thought was '_yep, that makes sense.'_

Because if there was ever any good "Parker Luck" the bad luck always came back a thousand times worse and with a vengeance to rival Inigo Montoya.

Oh, and his next thought: _'God no, I'd rather die.'_

Skip – his fucking childhood _rapist_ – smiled at him wolfishly from the couch. He stood up and made his way to Peter with that same infuriating confidence and a self-smugness so thick he could practically taste it from his place at the door.

The door.

The door to his apartment; the door to his home; the door to his home with his Aunt nowhere in sight.

He may or may not have been close to tears.

But, you know him, he's handling it. He's Spider-Man, he could just web him up and call the police and get this freaking _pedophile_ out of his _goddamn_ apartm– but he wasn't Spider-Man right then.

(And yes, Ned, there was a difference between Spider-Man and Peter Parker – the main one being that Peter Parker was a scrawny teenage nerd and Spider-Man was a super-hero. So no, Ned, he did _not_ have identity issues.)

He wasn't Spider-Man, he was Peter Parker and he's nine years old and he feels trapped and helpless and oh so scared – and the walls are closing in, and Skip's getting closer and everything's too close, and _his _hand lands on his shoulder and it _burns_ and everything is too close, too close, _too close _–

But he's definitely handling it. Because he has to; he _has _to be handling it.

(He ran away in a blind panic and didn't stop until he was four blocks away and puking his guts out behind a dumpster).

He was handling the _fuck _out of this.

(He was so, so fucking scared and hurt because why would his Aunt _bring _him here? why would she _do_ this to him? Was this a punishment? Was she finally realizing just how much of a screw up he was? Did she finally realize he killed Uncle Ben, that he let her husband die?

Was he going to die or would he just fade away under the heavy weight of Skip Westcott and his influence?)

The logical part of his mind knew that this had nothing to do with Aunt May and everything to do with his incessant need to repress this specific trauma in every way he could. He knew she didn't know what had happened.

He _knew _she didn't know.

He knew that out of all the blame that could be tossed around in this, this one was definitely on him.

(But it still felt like a punishment.)

And, in typical Peter Parker fashion, he put on his suit and avoided the issue as much as possible.

His Aunt texted him an hour later saying she was at home waiting with a surprise and that he should finish up patrol. He got Karen to text her a lame excuse of a meet up with Double D and that he wouldn't be home until later and refused to respond to anything else.

He didn't think he could come home that night.

(He didn't feel like it could ever be his home with _him_ in it. He didn't think he could survive it this time.

He didn't think he could live any longer with the guilt of knowing Skip could be hurting anyone else while he stood by in silence – complacent.)

He didn't think he could tell.

But he didn't think he couldn't either.

It was a strange thing because sometimes… sometimes it was all he ever wanted to do.

(Oh god, sometimes he wished he could scream 'I survived!' at the top of his lungs for the whole world to hear. Sometimes, the urge to rant to his Aunt May about the misconceptions of sexual assault and victim-blaming without her becoming suspicious got so strong he felt he had to physically shut his mouth. Sometimes, he just wanted to rant about it in general – once he started, the words would flow like a waterfall, unimpeded and drowning out any protests.

Sometimes, he imagined Skip's face behind bars and smiled. Sometimes, he wanted to cry and yell and hit and punch like a wild animal, wishing that _his_ face was the pillow he was attacking with a violent fervor.

But, at the same time, he was terrified and he didn't want to tell anyone – ever. And he didn't ever want to acknowledge that it happened and bringing that out with words felt like a finality he couldn't accept yet.

Most of the time, he didn't know what he wanted. But, he was sure that his mouth couldn't move to say the words even if he wanted to.)

So he stopped a few muggings, prevented a pile-up, and walked a girl home all to avoid thinking about Skip. He stayed out till four a.m. uncaring of the consequences and hoping beyond hope that his Aunt was asleep.

(She was.)

He climbed into his bedroom already having changed on the roof and slunk into his bed slowly.

He fell asleep within minutes.

It's at breakfast the next day – _Saturday_ – that he had to face him. Though he had to face an angry Aunt May first.

He knew Skip didn't tell her he ran out on him (because that would draw suspicion not only to him but to Skip as well) but apparently, she stayed up 'till two waiting for him. Which, on weekends, two a.m. is allowed – but not encouraged – if, and only if, he checks in with her every hour after midnight. He didn't check in with her for ten hours, which breaks every Spider-Man and Peter Parker rule in the house.

So, she came in at seven a.m., entirely unapologetic regarding his lack of sleep, and ripped him a new one. As a newly grounded Spider-nephew, he knew the consequences would extend beyond his patrol times. And then, the worst of all his possible punishments: she forced him to have breakfast with their 'surprise'.

He could hardly stomach looking at the man, much less breakfast. But he walked into the kitchen anyways, with the air of a man resigned to his death. Which, now that he thought about it, he might have been; if one considered one's soul slowly fading to be death, then a dying Peter Parker he was.

Just the flash of silver hair made his stomach turn and he forced down bile as he gave a shaky smile to the man – surer than ever that he looked sicker than a dog.

The man – _his childhood rapist_ – smiled back brightly; as charming as ever, Peter noted dully.

May gave him a disapproving look at his silence so he forced himself to talk, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans nervously before opening his mouth… except – he couldn't talk. He couldn't even make a noise. His mouth flopped uselessly and he turned his head away, frowning.

Skip stepped in, his voice cheerful and bright, "Einstein! It's been too long! How are you doing, kiddo?"

Peter flinched at the moniker before looking back up and holding his hand out for a greeting handshake, "Yeah, it's been a while. It's, uh, nice to see you, s-sir."

"Now none of that 'sir' stuff, Pete. It makes me feel old," he said, pleasantly pulling him in for a hug that Peter couldn't help but stiffen from. _Yeah, you are old_, Peter thought scathingly. _Too damn old for kids, you creep. Too damn old to be alive._

Why wasn't Skip dead yet? Why couldn't he just die from the weight of his sins?

(Spider-man doesn't kill. Spider-man _can't_ kill, but he wishes death upon this man.

Sometimes, he wonders if something in him snapped and twisted from all of this, corrupting his soul – he wonders if Skip damaged him beyond repair.)

Aunt May gave him a frown for his behavior, obviously noticing he was being strangely quiet and possibly thinking he was being rude.

(He didn't know, he wasn't a psychic.)

"Okay," she said, clasping her hands together and flicking her eyes between the two of them, "I bet you guys are hungry, so let's dig in! I made pancakes!"

With that, she turned on her heel to pad into the kitchen on light feet. Peter followed behind her in a rush, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and Skip with the excuse of helping with food. She glanced back at him and gave him a disapproving glare – she was clearly still angry with him.

He raised his hands in supplication and widened his eyes, innocently, "What? I'm just coming to help."

"Honey, no, but thank you," she said as her eyes softened and her tense form relaxed a fraction, "Go catch up with Skip. He's our guest and it's been a while since you've seen him."

He sighed, clenching his eyes shut tightly and tapping his fist against his thigh anxiously before opening them back up and giving her a tight smile.

"Of course, Aunt May. I love you."

She rushed off in a flurry of activity, throwing an 'I love you too!' over her shoulder that made Peter smile despite the situation he found himself in.

Rotating slowly on his heel, he released a pained breath, choking down a sob as he strode stiffly back to join Skip at the table.

"Sooo, Einstein," Skip said as Peter sat tensely on the edge of his seat. Skip's eyes lit up with a sort of manic glee at Peter's flinch that made a shiver go down his spine, "what'd you and your Aunt talk about without me?"

Peter didn't respond. Instead, he sent Skip a scathing glare.

"Why are you here?" he spat.

See, Peter was scared – terrified, even – but he was a boy who fought grown men every night and won. He was a scrabbling, posturing mess.

So, Peter was scared, but he was not willing to show it. He never saw fear as a weakness and anger as a strength except for when it came to himself.

Self-hatred is funny like that – so irrational and unfounded. He had a mask for a reason, he supposed, and he was just sliding it on right now – a mask of anger and aggression.

But, Skip took one look at Peter's face and laughed in amusement and Peter's face faltered and filled with a burning blush. He looked down to his lap and clenched his eyes shut tightly as he fiddled with his fingers.

"What do you want?" he croaked softly, noticing to his mounting horror that a tear had slipped out of his eye which he swiped away quickly. He bit his lip in an attempt to ground himself and avoided even opening his eyes, though he could feel Skip's stare boring into him anyways.

"You know exactly what I want," he said before he leaned across the table and whispered, voice sickly sweet, into Peter's ear, "you're even prettier all grown up."

A full-body shudder went through Peter's body as he hiccuped around a mixture of a gag and a horrified moan. He swiped his face fiercely, listening to Aunt May's clattering dishes and focusing on ignoring Skip as much as he could. It wasn't too hard as when Skip saw his growing tears he seemed to decide it wasn't worth the risk to provoke him anymore lest he went into a panic attack or something that would have been equally hard to explain to his Aunt.

The echo of Aunt May's footsteps grew closer and, with a quickness that would have made Peter jump had his enhanced hearing not picked up on her approaching, she sat a platter of both chocolate chip and plain pancakes on the table. The smell of burning dough filled his nostrils but he was too nauseous to care about the state of the pancakes he knew he wouldn't be eating. Reaching across the table, he grabbed one pancake and began to pick at it half-heartedly.

"Thanks, May," he mumbled into the table and tried to ignore the frown she had etched on her face as she welcomed him.

"So, Skip, how's college?" she asked, obviously trying to diffuse the awkward tension that had settled over the silent table.

"Oh, it's great Ms. Parker. I've settled in really well there."

"That's fantastic, but please, call me May! Ms. Parker makes me feel so old and you're all grown up now, however hard that is to believe. When I last saw you, you were only a few years older than Peter," she smiled warmly at him.

"Of course, Ms. Parker," he joked, winking at her and letting out a soft laugh as May faked a frown before smiling as well.

Peter curled into himself as if a smaller body mass could protect him from the playful banter of his Aunt and his rapist. Sadly, Aunt May didn't notice both his lack of appetite or his uncanny silence as she was so engrossed with her and Skip's conversation that when he left the table, she only paused to ask him to wash the dishes.

He had never been so glad for chores in his life, he thought, as he walked away from the uncannily cheerful chatter of his aunt and a pedophile.

It took him longer than usual to do the dishes as it felt like he had to balance each plate precariously in his hand, focusing harder than normal to not drop or break them – super strength could be infuriating to keep a handle on.

The sound of footsteps returning had him tense. His hands shook as his neck tingled 'danger'. He set the bowl he was holding on the drying rack and tried to reach for a new dish when the looming presence of a masculine figure swooped behind his back and reached over him. Grabbing the mug from his hand, Skip leaned his chest into Peter's back and made sure his arm brushed over Peter's wrist. The actions made Peter shudder and grip onto the counter tightly in his all-consuming fear.

His spider-sense was screaming 'run' at him and it amplified his anxiety so much that Peter had to bow his head and breathe deeply to keep his nausea down.

"I've got this for you," Skip said, slipping away and beginning to scrub the cutlery with a practiced hand, "You go on and relax, watch some T.V., Petey-Pie."

Skip hadn't looked at him when he said it, but Skip smiled to himself all the same, causing Peter to cringe slightly at the hollow feeling of uncomfortable terror in his stomach. He took the out, though and twirled away on quick feet.

When he reached the sofa, he hesitated. His aunt was bustling about and getting ready for her Saturday morning shift and he didn't want to be left in the open when she left. But, she would also reprimand him for leaving their guest for holing up in his room and try to drag him out anyways. It was better to just take a seat and retreat to his room as soon as the door closed on her way out.

Nodding to himself in a quick and nervous gesture, Peter sat down and flicked on the T.V., pulling his legs underneath him and leaning as comfortably as he could on the armrest. He was mindless as he watched the T.V., drifting between thoughts and ideas and 'what if's. It wasn't until a breaking news report came in that Peter even realized what, exactly, he was watching.

He needed to be more aware, he thought as he tried to focus his mind into the moment.

It was only a few minutes into watching the television before Skip came to join him. He could hear Aunt May drying her hair and knew that he had about ten minutes left before she went to work.

Skip flopped down onto the couch beside him, throwing a jaunty wave his way and Peter felt his stomach lurch at the action. He sat tightly and clutched the armrest with an iron grip as he tried not to break the couch underneath his hands. Skip turned to the T.V., his white hair flickering in the light as he ignored Peter.

Peter wouldn't lie and say he was entirely pleased with that. Oh, sure, it was nice not to feel those arctic blue eyes tracking his form, but Skip ignoring him brought out a primal wariness in him that he couldn't pin down. His spider-sense screamed at him and he knew the danger – saw it right there – and yet, the danger stayed still. It was akin to the prey sitting comfortably next to the predator.

It was wrong and left him on edge, waiting for a trick and watching Skip out of the corner of his eyes.

Aunt May rushed in in a flurry of movement, passing Peter and pecking him with a quick kiss on the top of his head.

"Bye, sweetie! Love you!" she called as she rushed out the door.

He responded in turn and watched the lock with fidgeting hands until it clicked closed. He hopped to his feet at the sound and stumbled towards his bedroom door, disoriented and panicked as he collapsed onto his bed in a ball. His hands pulled fiercely at his hair as he rocked back and forth from anxiety.

How could Skip play pretend so well?

Peter shoved a fist in his mouth and bit down hard, muffling a scream as tears began to stream down his face.

How did this even happen?

He whimpered around his hand, squeezing his eyes shut harshly.

(When Peter had only just turned 16, he cried.)


	4. Chocolate Bar Therapy

**Chapter Summary: **The comfort of a friend.

* * *

_What of galaxies peeling through infinity?_

_Are we specks of nothingness or pillars of importance?_

_Does the sweat forming on our brows come from Venus or Andromeda?_

_(The closer you get, the more I break down)_

* * *

The weekend moved passed slowly as if time had purposefully slowed itself down for him to trudge through its sluggish passing. Skip was set to stay with them for a month as he settled down to find a place of his own near his job. The only issue with that was that most of the apartments in the area near his work had waiting lists that were unpredictable.

Peter didn't know what he would do if the month of Skip living at his home turned into two.

The largest issue was that Skip remained a family friend. Peter did not doubt that even moved away, Skip would still play a part in their lives. He supposed Skip coming to family dinners would happen no matter how long Skip had to stay before moving into his apartment, so he still hoped that Skip was able to find one soon.

He was honestly astonished at how well he was able to avoid Skip that weekend, though. He stayed in his room most of the time, but still. Skip made no attempts to enter his room and, although his spider-sense screamed at him constantly, no spikes occurred that suggested an imminent face down with the threat.

It felt more like a trap than a relief. In a weird sort of way, he wished that something had happened rather than waiting on the edge of his seat, unknowing of what would happen next and constantly catastrophizing in his head. His brain snowballed through worst-case scenarios and he found himself so on edge he was hardly able to sleep.

(He was Spider-Man now and he wanted so badly to get a chance to prove he could stand up to Skip. Maybe he did want something to happen so he could finally get a chance to fight back.

He wanted to know if he was stronger.)

When Monday came it felt like all the tension in his body decreased rapidly, like a balloon letting out all of its air at once. He was so relieved about going to school he thought he could cry. He woke up with a grin and an actual appetite and ran out of his apartment with a full belly for the first time in days.

Skip wasn't even awake when Peter had left which had him practically skipping to the subway. It was strange that he could be so happy just because he was temporarily removing himself from the threat. After all, he had to go back eventually.

But, he had a full day ahead of him and not even Flash could bring him down.

Ned noticed, of course he did. Ned always noticed.

Ned saw right through him as he flinched away from his handshake and his eyes narrowed in concern.

"You alright?" he asked, voice earnest and worried as he lowered his voice to whisper, "bad patrol?"

Peter paused, wondering why everything in him wanted to say 'no' and tell Ned the real reason, but saying, "Yeah," instead.

"What happened?" he started before waving his hand when Peter seemed uncertain to answer, misinterpreting it as reluctance rather than unsureness.

"I mean, you don't have to say. It's cool if you don't wanna talk about it, but guess what?" he said, elbowing Peter in the ribs and leaning in conspiratorially as he tried to lift Peter's spirits, "I was on Spider-Watch last night for you and a girl posted a picture of Spider-Man helping her home on Friday. It got like 23,000 likes, bro! It's just so cool that Spider-Man helps _everyone_ all the time. That's what makes him better than the Avengers to me! In fact, _that's_ what makes him my favorite."

He finished with a supportive nod and a bright smile at Peter who couldn't help but smile back appreciatively at his friend. Even though he was dealing with more than just bad patrols, Ned could always cheer him up.

Ned always knew what he needed and he had gotten much better at keeping the details of the, ahem, _'internship' _more secret. Peter leaned into his side, wishing desperately for a hug but not knowing how he'd react if he'd got one.

Skip hadn't even done anything and Peter had reverted back to old tics. It frustrated him how little control he had over himself. Peter felt like his life had never been in his control, though that was to be expected considering no one could control everything. But, for Peter, he had never had much control over anything at all.

Peter had never once felt in control of his life.

That was a morbid thought so he shook it away. Today was supposed to be a break; a chance to be away from Skip and his suffocating presence, if only for a little while. It was a chance to hang out with his friends and feel normal again.

Who knew it would only take one weekend for Peter to feel like he was back to being a 9-year-old kid?

Ned gripped his arm supportively and Peter could feel the grin tugging at his cheeks as Ned guided him through the hall. He could think about bad stuff later. Right then, he had a chemistry test to take. He was vaguely aware of Flash calling out an insult but it filtered out of his ears like water running through cupped fingers – Ned's presence a buffer between the cruelty of the world and Peter's own fragile soul.

Today would be a great day.

(It was.)

And if he came home with an extra chocolate bar from Ned after he noticed Peter's hands trembling in chemistry, then that made it even better.

(When Peter was sixteen he was friends with an angel.)


	5. Blue-Lipped and Frostbitten

**Chapter Summary: **A week can hold for nothing but an hour can last infinity.

* * *

_Light in spheres of heat trapped near_

_The flimsy protection of a photo veneer_

_Sunlight streaming heavenly beams_

_(The closer he gets the louder I scream)_

* * *

Peter's life could be described as a tragedy. It was a series of unfortunate events that rivalled each other in levels of emotional brutality and tore apart his poorly constructed plan for his life ever since it began its downward spiral at the tender age of seven – protect Uncle Ben, protect Aunt May, never be helpless again, fight back, protect, protect, protect.

He had failed a lot at it. Although, failing implied that he had done something to make his goals unattainable in the first place. And, no, Peter had never done anything to have his life be a storybook of misfortune.

Peter was just unlucky like that.

(He'd been putting the 'e' in dad since he was born and there was nothing more to say on that matter.

Unless you included the fact that that was the main reason he was trying not to view Mr. Stark as a father figure.)

But, Peter knew that there were those with less than him, those with more abuse to face, and even those with more grief, so he tried not to complain. After all, complaining about things he couldn't control didn't make them go away.

(But it did let off an awful lot of steam.)

Surprisingly, being Spider-Man helped with dealing with his bad draw in life. He saw children curled in alleyways under newspapers, half-starved and helpless and watched the impoverished be robbed of their last dollar bills. Sure, he had always helped them and been able to get them out of their bad circumstances – and no he was _not_ jealous that nobody had done the same for him – but still. Living through those circumstances in the first place was traumatizing in and of itself.

Peter knew trauma like the back of his hand and understood that he could always add more to his laundry list of issues, but adding Skip back in an entirely separate column was something he only let himself think in his darkest nightmares. It had been a week since he had arrived and Aunt May was leaving for her Saturday shift again and promised to bring Thai for dinner.

And, 'no, you are not allowed to go Spider-manning or visit Ned because Skip's a guest and you should spend some time with him. Also, did you forget how grounded you are right now?'

The cycle of unfortunate events that had swarmed through his life had left him alone and in fear at the mercy of Skip and still unsure if Skip would even try anything. After all, he had left him alone the last weekend, hadn't he?

(Maybe Peter could be strong. Maybe he could fight back.

Maybe he could be free.)

But, no. Peter's life was too unlucky for that kind of break.

It happened the same way it always did – in his room, his sanctuary, and without anyone home to hear his pleas and save him from his own personal monster.

(_Cold hands, cold eyes – he's so cold, cold, cold –_

_He is suffocating from the empty chasm of his chest as Skip strips his soul bare to the wintery elements of his cruelty._)

Peter's muscles tensed and he felt like his head would explode from the pressure. Skip's hand was heavy on his thigh and, as it slowly glided upward, he couldn't help but stop breathing entirely. His chest felt tight and his body was frozen, only his pulse fluttered beneath his skin with anxiety. His jaw clamped down upon his breath, choking him with his own closed mouth and flaring nostrils.

"Stop," he whimpered, feeling pathetically useless as tears began to prickle at his eyes.

Skip leaned in, his lips brushing against Peter's ear and dipping further to nose at his neck as he smirked into the junction of his shoulder. Peter shivered in disgust and nervous apprehension when a light tickle of teeth rubbed against his sensitive skin.

"Oh, Einstein. I thought you were smarter than that," he whispered, voice low and dark, "you know I can't stop now."

Skip's thumb reached up to caress under Peter's eye, catching a teardrop right as it fell over the precipice of his eyelid and rubbing it into the skin of his cheek with a disturbingly tender touch.

When talking about survival instincts, people only ever mentioned fight or flight. There was never any recollection of freeze, no mention of defensiveness.

Fight or flight made it seem simple – like the layers to the atmosphere just didn't exist and sunlight beat heavy and untamed. If there weren't any layers, the Earth would have died out years ago. But there were because things weren't black or white, one or the other. They just were.

But Peter froze because freezing was natural. His body stiffened like a coiled spring locked and ready to pop in an eruption of movement but blocked off by an instinctual desire to _not provoke the threat._

There were the runners, the ones who fled with their tails tucked between their legs and found somewhere, anywhere, to escape to. There were the people whose fear turned them into blind sprinters racing as if the world was falling at their heels.

There were the fighters. The vicious, clawing underdogs who never stood down and limped forward evermore.

Then, there were the hiders. The ones who tucked themselves in corners and slinked away into shadows.

But freezing was the cruelest of all human reactions – locking oneself in their suffering and keeping them in a state of suspended terror.

Peter had thought he was a fighter. He had pushed himself up on broken arms and lifted the weight of cities on his shoulders.

(Metaphorically, of course, though buildings were heavy enough on their own.)

Peter had bounced back like a rubber band, twanging and pinging like a stretched-out wire as time after time people died and crumbled in his hands. He had clawed his way to victory with punctured lungs and split lips, facing down the barrel of a gun unflinchingly.

And yet, here he froze with the chill of hell creeping down his spine. There was nothing in the world besides Skip that could change his fiery spirit into an ice-cold lump of coal.

Because Peter panicked at the slightest sight of silver hair. His world narrowed down to a point and he tipped from the firm threshold of reality into some muted in-between. Peter's world was filled with snowflakes spiraling in the numbness of winter-time forming rigid icy hands that caressed and grabbed and held him down upon the cotton sheets atop his bed. He was an ice sculpture locked in a dance he had only just begun to understand, being carved out with a chisel held in the hands of the sun.

He was melting, sure, but even his core remained the unflinching ice of pure horror. The only thing that suns could do to a sculpture made entirely out of cold crystal was destroy them – melt them down to their basest particles.

There was no room for thawing here, no place for finding him hidden amongst the melt of himself.

(Peter remembers Ben's face as a mugger held a gun to his head and wonders why he didn't realize that freezing was something he seemed born for if only in the moments that mattered most.)

Skip's face curved into a pleased smile as he leaned back to stare Peter head-on and Peter felt his icy heart chip a little in response.

"What's wrong, Petey-Pie? Are you scared?" Skip crooned, eyes malignant and dark, turning light blue stormy. He angled his head forward and met Peter's lips and Peter tightened his mouth in response, trying his best to keep Skip's aggressive tongue out of his mouth. Skip bit his lip warningly before sliding his thumb from under Peter's eye to his jaw and pushed hard until Peter had no choice but to open his mouth or risk his skin bruising. The kiss turned into that of a group of uncoordinated dancers falling over each other to reach something before the other – like a brutal tumble down a hillside, tripping and stumbling and clawing for dominance.

It wasn't normal, Peter thought, it wasn't normal that he was just sitting there, _letting _it happen.

But he was. He was petrified in place as his limbs struggled to move, to do anything.

He pushed and pushed but nothing in him _budged_.

(Well, perhaps a little of his sanity.)

He was shaking, he noted absently. He was shaking and trembling, but he still couldn't push the monster choking him with his tongue and blistering him with his hands off his body.

He wondered what Mr. Stark would think of him, shame filling his gut as the tears flowed faster. Silence permeated the room and even the soft sounds of flesh upon flesh were lost to the numbness Peter began to feel. What would people think if they knew Spider-Man couldn't fight back? What would they say?

(Peter wants this, doesn't he? That's why he's sitting as tense as a statue and not beating the crap out of this man. Peter must want this.

Why would he want this?)

He began to block it all out – he was still alert, but his senses dulled to the negative and he shook with relief that his body wasn't picking up the words Skip had pulled away from his mouth to murmur in his ear.

The world was clear and sharp but he was hiding in a corner of his mind reciting the periodic table and trying to ignore all the sensations violating his body.

He looked to the window but the light felt _wrong_. Everything felt tilted and fuzzy with tears as the curves of sunlight beat through the window in spiraling prisms of orange and yellow. It felt like he was looking at the room underwater. The air was pressured and dense, cocooning him like a particularly heavy weighted blanket.

Skip was further now, Peter noted with a clenched jaw, touching and _hurting_ and –

It happened the same way it always did.

It felt like years wrapped up into minutes as Skip loomed over his soul like a particularly gruesome shadow.

Skip didn't even acknowledge it happened as he left, his hands leaving scorching trails on Peter's _cold, cold, cold_ skin.

(When Peter was 16 it happened the same way it always did.)


	6. Safehouse

**Chapter Summary: **There are some memories that swirl through time as if it wasn't a line, but a circle. They call this trauma. Peter calls it an inconvenience.

* * *

_The sky is a heavy thing_

_Filled with starlight and kerosene moon beams_

_Don't let its empty depths fool your earthly eyes_

_The vastness of space is just a disguise_

* * *

His week went like this: a cyclical pattern of pain and terror, leaving him on edge for all the horrible things that were and had been and would be.

(Death, death, death. Fear, fear, fear.

_Hands, hands, hands._)

There were lots of things stuck in Peter's head. Peter had a thousand memories to his name and a thousand more than that as well. He had his high school chemistry textbook wedged alongside his uncle's deathly pale face and wondered why the sentences on page 47 were just as easily remembered as Ben's dying moments.

Though, that wasn't the point. The point was that Peter remembered. Peter was a flytrap for information with too much stuffing his brain and too little flowing out.

It didn't mean those more terrible moments weren't scarring or more vividly felt. It just meant that he was built by that which he had experienced (as we all are) and he had never lost much of any knowledge he obtained.

His brain was bursting with nebulas and his starlight innocence was stripped bare. He was a black hole of trauma.

If all of his hateful experiences were to be shed, would he still be Peter Parker at all?

How does one measure a man when he is still but a boy? What is the difference in age but experience?

(Peter Parker had too much experience for any age.)

He was changed, scarred and twisted and some things were just ingrained in him now – some tics just never left. Would he have been anywhere close to the person he was today without Skip? Would his trauma be a light dusting on his skin, unlike this deep and all-penetrating suffering?

Peter didn't know but he didn't want to either.

(If you take away the pain from him, would he really be the same? Would he want to know what he could have been? What he could have had?

Could he deal with that, that unscarred being?)

There was no spectacular story to him, no single defining event, but if you looked at his life as a whole he knew any average person would wince. Whether in sympathy or astonishment, he didn't know but he knew it wasn't the happiest resume.

Being Spider-Man meant he was changing that to some degree. He was participating in a good-willed, fulfilling activity and, although he was adding trauma upon trauma every time he got hurt or saw others get hurt, he couldn't find it to be negative for his health. Somehow, it made him feel… _cleaner_ as a person.

He knew he was a little broken, a little shattered in the head, but Spider-Man made him feel whole again. Made him feel wholesome and good and _worth_ something.

But, Peter was trapped. His suit was on lockdown in his room –

(so close yet so very far away – )

and his world seemed confined to his crime scene of a bedroom and his lonely, hollow home (_that doesn't feel like home, might never feel like home, **isn't home anymore**_).

Without Spider-Man he was spiraling in the restraints of his own emotional turmoil. He was restricted by his racing heart and creaking, cracking soul. There was no freedom to find, no reprieve from the nightmare of his sleeping mind and waking world.

His life was a surround sound view of scraping skin and scratching fingernails scrabbling for a way out.

But there wasn't an escape from this, there wasn't somewhere he could run.

And it was both all his fault and not his at all.

(The suit is locked up and his Aunt has a shift until 6 every day but on Sunday but she gets home at 7 because this is New York and he has 4 hours alone with a monster and he is alone -

And he's locked up in a pretty box filled with cushions and false comfort and why does that make it so much worse? Why are the softest touches the most painful?

Why does he prefer the uncomfortable shift of a blade over the softer caress of skin?

You might say this is easy, you might scream and say, 'just tell her' but do _you_ know the ache and strain of a carefully balanced soul trying its hardest to stay upright? Do you know the abject terror that comes from the discomfort of lingering eyes?

Do you know what it's like to be a boy of paper-thin excuses and yet not be caught in your lies, having to watch as you wear down slowly and _no one _sees? Do you know what it's like to wish to scream but not be able to because of the hand plunged down your throat blocking your confessions of slimy sin and morbid screams?

Do you know what it's like to be trapped in a gilded cage?

Do you _know_ what it's like?

And if you do but do not sympathize than there is nothing here for me to say for you are made of false empathy and cold-hearted apathy. If you have made it this far and do not care, then why are you here at all?)

Peter was trapped in his routine as well, but he liked to think there was some reprieve. After all, he still had lab days on Wednesday and Friday where he spent his evenings in the calm monotony of chaos that Mr. Stark had carefully constructed for himself. And, if nothing else, at least it was September and he had school each day for the whole extent of Skip's stay. He didn't know what he'd have done if he had to stay at home with Skip's wandering fingers instead of attending classes.

There were hundreds of thousands of paths he could have chosen his entire life and a hundred thousand more he could still choose. There were millions of realities at his fingertips, swirling out of his every breath and slightest shift of movement. There were a thousand ways he could be and a thousand more he was.

And, when thinking that, Peter liked to believe he wasn't trapped. He liked to think that he was just one of the many Peter's that could have been and could be and that he was just the one with the bad habit of trapping his own damn self.

He pretended it had something to do with fate. He pretended that all of the little strings of time he resided in meant that this was just his path.

He liked to believe he wasn't in control of the situation because the knowledge that he might be – the knowledge that he could _change_ what was happening to him – was too much to bear when he lay cold and hollow like a stone drum under Skip's panting breaths. He liked to believe everything was out of his control at the same time that he wished he held the reigns of his life clutched in a white-knuckled fist.

He wanted to grasp desperately to his control, but it was failing him. He had no grip on the steering wheel of his life.

He had no control – never had any.

But that was fine, he was _fine_…

It was a lab day today as it had been the past Wednesday and the Wednesday before that. It was a lab day just like any other (the same way it always was) and yet it felt so very different. It was a lab day and yet it wasn't really, because lab days were supposed to be looked forward to, not dreaded.

And, although there was some part of Peter that felt excited to be out of the house and with someone he _trusted_, there was a lot to be wary about when it came to spending time with Tony Stark whilst hiding something.

Sometimes he thought his vision got too dark to see clearly but mostly he knew that his perception of the world around him was skewed by his mind and not his eyes. Everything seemed so much bigger down where he stood. People always said that abuse or trauma or mental illnesses made everyday things seem less important but, for him, each and every task seemed like a mountain he had to climb or else be crushed by an avalanche after its weight tumbled down from incompletion.

Each breath felt like a great wheezing choke of air as he struggled to filter the oxygen rushing to his lungs.

But tinkering in a lab next to a man who could cut through bullshit with a knife was one of his more daunting feats and he felt perfectly entitled to his discomfort.

So if Happy would _please stop looking at him all concerned_ that would be highly appreciated.

(And the man said he didn't like him.)

"Hey, kid," Happy grunted as his eyes flicked up to meet Peter's through the rear-view mirror, "you doing alright?"

"Y-yeah, yeah. I'm alright."

Peter smiled wanly at him before looking away awkwardly when Happy gave him a disbelieving stare. He supposed it wasn't Happy's fault that he was concerned. Peter was acting suspiciously. He was quiet where he was normally loud and sullen where he was normally bright-eyed and eager.

It didn't help that Peter had behaved strangely the week before as well. Though, he had been much less timid and skittish as he had yet to deal with what the reality of Skip's return meant for him.

"Alright, kid, but if Tony asks me how you're doing don't think I'll sugarcoat it for him. You're acting like a nervous zombie."

Peter sighed as they pulled into the Tower's private parking lot, his body sagging as he nodded to Happy's statement.

Mr. Stark had eventually decided to keep the tower after the debacle with the Vulture just so he could have a way to monitor New York, but Peter suspected that Tony wanted a way to maintain contact with him as well. Though Mr. Stark spent most of his time upstate, he came down for lab days and company business. He had made a clear distinction between the compound and the tower – the main one being that all Stark industries business was conducted in the city while Avengers business happened upstate.

The elevator ride to Mr. Stark's private floor felt stifled with awkward anticipation as Peter fidgeted agitatedly. Happy's scrutinizing glances didn't help and when the elevator doors finally slid open, Peter, for all his nervousness, couldn't help but feel relieved to be out of the tight space.

Making a beeline to the lab, Peter almost smiled at what his super-hearing picked up as he departed from the elevator.

"Boss, some teenage angst is heading your way," Happy mumbled into his earpiece and Peter was too amused at Happy's forgetfulness of his abilities to have the energy to scowl petulantly as he might have before.

The sound of a welding iron grating on metal and ACDC filled his ears the closer he got and, as if through some sort of muscle memory, Peter somehow felt much calmer than before. Greeting Mr. Stark with a smile, he set his backpack down in the corner of the lab and grinned to himself at the sudden freedom of his chest.

Where before he had gotten to the lab he had felt weighed down with a cloud of smoke that had clogged his lungs and impeded his breath, just being in the pandemonium of metal and advanced technology alongside his mentor felt like a breath of fresh air.

"Hey, Mr. Stark!" he chirped, relishing in the brief lapse in the depression he had been experiencing.

Tony's eyebrows raised at the happy tone and he gave Peter a considering look.

"Here I was expecting some sort of gloomy teenager and I get a puppy. How come Happy made it sound as though it was the end of the world?"

Peter plopped down and spun on an empty rolling chair towards the desk Mr. Stark was working at as he thought of an appropriate answer. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and gave Mr. Stark a small smile.

"Well, I guess I was a _liiiittle _quiet," he joked, lighting up when Tony laughed.

"See, that's scary kid. You probably gave him a heart attack from that alone, the big worrywart."

"Probably," Peter agreed, letting out a little laugh, "what are we working on today?"

"Just the mechanical properties of your bio-chemical fluid over there," Mr. Stark said pointing his left hand to the shelf that held Peter's web fluid as he continued to fiddle with an Iron Man gauntlet in his opposite hand.

Peter furrowed his brows in confusion.

"But it doesn't have any mechanical properties," he started, trying to understand what Tony meant, "unless you mean the function of its movements in which its structure affects the – "

"Ah, ah, I'm gonna stop you right there before you go on some rant that will just disappoint me in the end – you being a biophysics prodigy over mechanical engineering and all. For shame," Tony snarked affectionately and Peter laughed at the teasing that once might have made him curl inwards in shame, "I only mean that we're going to try to apply the same idea of your web fluid into a mechanical model."

"Ohhh," Peter nodded his head in understanding, "makes sense. You want to make a flexible metal-based polymer-like substance with a configuration that would allow for high tensile strength for every direction it may be stretched. It's like taking the saying 'a spider's web is as strong as a metal pole' and making it a reality."

Ignoring Mr. Stark's fond look at his rambling even though it filled him with pride, Peter's eyes widened as he came to a realization.

"But wouldn't doing all that require nanotechnology?"

Tony swiveled his chair until he faced Peter head-on as he swung his wrench to point it mock sternly at Peter's nose.

"That's correct, Underoos," Tony confirmed as Peter's eyes crossed to focus on the tool in front of him.

Slipping out of his chair and wiping his grease-stained hands on his jeans, Mr. Stark sauntered over to the large containers of web fluid and plucked one off the shelf.

"And if you don't think I can make nanites then you haven't met me yet," he smirked, "I'm Tony fucking Stark, I can do anything."

Peter raised his eyebrows at his mentor and gave him a humoring smile.

"Don't quote Sam Winchester. That's plagiarism."

"Kid, I don't even know who Sam Winchester is."

Peter gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest, "how can you not know who Sam Winchester is, you uncultured swine?"

"Yeah, yeah, get over here Mr. 'I love 80's music but don't know a single song'."

"Hey! I resent that," Peter complained as he shuffled over to his 'boss'.

"Oh, yeah? Name one song."

"…Iron Man?" Peter asked unsurely.

Tony sighed, "I wanna say that doesn't count, but I can't."

Peter whooped and slammed a fist in the air triumphantly and Tony rolled his eyes at his antics.

"Okay, so, let's get started," Mr. Stark said as he clapped his hands in a decisive smack to get them back on track, "firstly, what would the difference in function be if it is no longer an organic compound and is, instead, an inorganic product made of reusable but tougher material."

"It's only tougher on a cellular level, though," Peter noted, perhaps a tad bit defensive of his creation, "also, wouldn't it be difficult to mimic the stickiness?"

"Not if the texture the nanites create on the exterior is fashioned after the way your own skin grips materials."

"Okay, but what are the benefits?" Peter questioned, a little wary of changing his web fluid to something as clunky as metal.

"Well, nanites can reform so you'd only need one canister that can return its contents to you consistently," Tony pointed out, "and its inorganic nature implies that it can be controlled easier."

"But one major benefit of my webs _is_ the fact that they're organic because of its high concentration of Vitamin K which I can utilize to speed up the healing of wounds and stop blood flow. It was based on the ancient medicinal practice of putting spider-webs in wounds to clot the blood."

"Ignoring the fact that that's absolutely disgusting, we aren't doing this to replace your web fluid. We're doing this to figure something out. It's mainly just for science, kid."

"Oh, okay. Good," Peter breathed out, relieved.

For some reason, his web fluid felt like a part of him and he didn't want to give that up to some strange metal contraption.

"So, where would you start?" Tony asked, an amused glint in his eyes at Peter's behavior as he gave Peter the chance to direct the flow of the experiment.

Peter blushed but turned thoughtful for a moment before his eyes lit up.

"Well, you'd need to take the structure of both my web fluid – to make the interior of the nanites similar to that of a tunnel made of angular support beams – and the structure of a bridge's foundation as well as utilize the surface of the nanite piping in a way that doesn't interfere with the interior's structural integrity but can also hold firm to different materials. We'd need to take a look at angles that can fold and still hold weight as well as…"

"Boss, dinner has arrived."

They were still only on the theoretical levels of research by 7 p.m. when F.R.I.D.A.Y. notified them of their meal and subsequently ended lab time. Peter and Tony had spent too many nights getting caught up in work and having Peter come home late before May made sure that Tony had some sort of permanent protocol in place that would remind him of his duties as an adult watching over a teenager on a school night (though even Friday nights had the protocol, only it was implemented an hour later).

Embarrassingly for Peter, this protocol was called the 'Night-Night protocol'.

Peter had had a fun night and, barring the few flinches at Mr. Stark's sometimes sudden touches, there were no real issues they had to confront in dealing with his emotional state.

But, staring at the large meal in front of him, he couldn't help but cringe at the thought of eating. The noodles in the takeout dish looked slimy and he gagged when he imagined them sliding down his throat. His stomach felt as if it was heavy with curdled milk. It churned nauseously and threatened to rebel.

Peter didn't want to eat in front of his mentor – l_ips wrapped around_ –

Peter didn't want to eat but he wanted to throw up. Were those two things related?

Perhaps, perhaps not.

It could have all related to that sick feeling of unreality he had as he stared down at the meal wobbling in his watery view. It could have been the images flowing through time and overlaying themselves in a cruel parody of real-life video editing.

Skip's leering face mixed with his bloodstained hands on top of the stir-fried noodles and it took all of Peter's control not to scream out for his Uncle and beg him to just '_Stay alive! Please! I'm sorry!'_

Peter swallowed. Peter swallowed and then he blinked, long and hard. Peter swallowed and blinked and choked on a sob that he refused to let out.

And then he sighed, wet and tearful and broken as he cracked open a pair of cheap wooden chopsticks. The wood splintered at the top and a thin filament pierced into his skin.

Peter didn't care nor did he want to remove it.

Tony sat down beside him with a loaded plate and Peter swallowed again and forced a smile as he tried to stop his brain from imagining his mentor's eyes cold and glassy with death.

"Are you too rich to eat out of the takeout box?" he asked, going for a cheeky grin as he continued their age-old jabs at each other's eating habits.

"Are you too boorish too put your Pad Thai on a plate?" Tony scoffed, feigning snobbishness as he looked at Peter's box of noodles

"Excuse you, this is Pad See Ew I am eating," Peter joked, "Thai noodles don't just consist of the ever-popular Pad Thai, you uncultured swine."

"Is that another one of your memes?" Tony asked around a mouthful of what was _actually_ Pad Thai.

"Somewhat," Peter conceded before looking back to his noodles.

They were flat and long and made him question why he had gotten something so slippery and thick to eat. He still felt nauseous but, for some reason, Tony's presence had calmed him again.

_'2 in one'_, he thought sardonically. It was as if being around his mentor made everything better.

He imagined it might have felt the same way with Aunt May if every time they interacted Skip _wasn't_ in the room next door. He hoped that that was the reason he couldn't get this kind of emotional reprieve with her.

(He tried not to think about what that meant about the nature of his and Tony's relationship.)

Sighing once again but with less horror and more despondency, he brought the noodles to his mouth, chewing slowly and relishing in the taste that wasn't quite as horrible as he'd expected with his angry stomach.

And then, Peter swallowed.

(There was something rather morbid about it all: the degradation of rudimentary acts of survival and the impossibility of these tasks because of visceral fear. What kind of thing could be so terrible to make the most basic human instincts seem like great hurdles of principle?

Had something so awful happened to him to make him this way? Was this all so horrifying?

Sometimes, it felt so.)

"So, it's been, what? A week and a half since you were grounded?" Mr. Stark asked, "When do you think your outrageously hot Aunt will let you go out again, spiderling?"

"Hmm," he hummed, shaking his head clear of thoughts to focus on what Tony had said.

"Oh, well, I'm pretty sure she said this weekend. Why? – and stop calling my aunt hot," he whined

"Just wanted to know when to look forward to monitoring your curly topped little head again."

"Mr. Staaark," Peter groaned, putting his face in his hands, "you don't have to monitor me."

Tony gave him a deadpan stare.

"Uh-huh," he droned, disbelieving, "and who else is gonna lift buildings off of you when you're too stubborn to call for help."

Hey!" Peter whined, "that is not how that went and you know it!"

"Yeah, but it would probably be how it went if you had the suit – still hacked so it couldn't even send me an alert. At least then you'd have had an option to call me, but I doubt you would have taken it," Mr. Stark said, piercing Peter with a knowing stare – the one that said, 'you can't lie to me'.

"Fine, fine," Peter grumbled, "helicopter all you want, it's your time you're wasting, not mine."

"It's not wasting time if it saves your life," Tony pointed out.

And Peter thought, so loudly and so clearly, _'It is if I don't even want to be saved. What's the point of living then?'_

And that thought scared him because another voice echoed in his head that haunted him like a noose tugging at his neck – always there and making its presence known by teasing softly at his jugular:

'_With great power comes great responsibility.'_

How could he want to die with those words ringing in his ears?

(When Peter was 16-years-old he looked to his hands and saw blood that wasn't there.)


	7. Masquerade at a Bank

**AN/Summary/Quote Line for this chapter: There is a mask we all wear, but not everyone's can be physical.**

**IMPORTANT NOTE: Just so you guys know, my updates will usually be once a week or less unless I have a health complication. I am struggling with a lot of health problems right now and will always try to get my chapters out in under two weeks at the latest. Sorry about the wait for this one, but I've been out of school all week for sickness and haven't really felt good enough to finish the editing until tonight! Another one is coming real soon as I have it fully written but it's unedited so it might take me a day to post it. **

**(Anyone who's not a huge fan of the English language or hates English class, don't read on for fear of cursing you with my nerdiness.)**

** If anyone's read Orwell's 'Politics and the English Language', you'll know that I follow about zero of his 'rules of writing', lol, sorry about my title for the chapter Georgie-poo. Not to say he's wrong, as I use his 'rules' for all my graded essay writing, but it's funny to reread it and compare it to my works of fiction. Though, I'll always recommend Ralph Waldo Emerson over George Orwell when it comes to essay writing - especially 'The Method of Nature' as that's an excellent read. But, if you haven't read George Orwell's 'Shooting an Elephant', you must do that now. I feel like that should be a requirement for all high school students, but who am I to say?**

* * *

_It is full to the brim_

_This universe is bursting with light_

_How can it sit upon our shoulders and not break our backs?_

_Who carries the most galaxies upon their neck?_

* * *

There was a giddiness lighting up his veins. His leg bounced and his mouth was pressed into a thin line as he tried to suppress a delighted smile.

He reached to his phone in an act to quell his twiddling thumbs and glanced at the date on the screen blaring obnoxiously bright with his heightened senses.

Saturday, September 21.

He was officially allowed to be Spider-Man again.

And sure, he wasn't allowed to leave the house until 3 – monitoring from Mr. Stark included – but _still._

(He was free to breathe again. Free to chase after birds in the sky again.

Free to fly away from this hell of small-dimensions and tight walls.)

He was in his room – door locked, he wasn't stupid – watching the clock and waiting for the infuriatingly long five minutes before 3 p.m. to be over.

He had an alarm set and everything.

There was a trilling noise from his phone and he looked down and groaned – Aunt May was calling.

Picking up the device with twitching hands, Peter's face twisted into a grimace.

"Hey, Aunt May," he greeted, his voice wary and tight, "how's it going?"

"If you step one toe out of line, you're done," Aunt May lectured and Peter winced at the lack of greeting and harsh tone, "no second chances and no buffer room. If you're one minute late, you'll be sitting on your butt in your room for two more weeks. You call every hour and if I hear you ran out of web fluid without backup, you're out."

Groaning, Peter nodded although May couldn't see.

"Yep, you told me," he breathed, a little exasperated and on edge from the interruption, "don't worry, May. I'll be fine."

He heard a heavy sigh and May started again, her tone softer.

"I know, sweetie, I'm just worried. It's hard seeing you run around New York and –"she made a noise of distress, "I just don't want you to get hurt."

The alarm rang and Peter fumbled to turn it off as the shrill tone clamored in his ears.

"Yeah, yeah," he managed, raising his voice so she could hear him better, "I get it."

"I know you do," she acknowledged, not seeming to react to the additional sound, "but you also left me waiting for ten hours last time and I don't think I can handle that again."

A wave of guilt he had been holding back through sheer willpower hit him like a tsunami.

"Yeah, I did," he choked, his good mood deteriorating rapidly.

He looked to his lap and picked at the divots in his suit morosely. What he wouldn't give to go back in time and just communicate with his aunt a little better.

"It's alright, kiddo, just don't do it again. I've got to get back to work, but I just wanted to check in," she replied, "I hope you have a good day and good luck out there, Pete. Know that, no matter what, I'm proud of you."

A reluctant swell of pride surfaced in his chest and he smiled despite himself.

"Yeah?" he asked, feeling remarkably like a child searching for praise.

"Yeah," she answered, soft and genuine.

"Love you, May."

"Love you too, kiddo."

After setting his phone on the table beside his bed, he slid his mask on and shimmied awkwardly out the window. Stopping on the ledge, he breathed in deeply and thanked his mentor mentally for the sensory dampeners built into the mask as the polluted air of the city reached his nose. The air stunk terribly and he didn't want to imagine how it would smell if he was using the full extent of his senses.

Barring the terrible odors, the fresh air still made his lips curl into a soft smile. He pushed off his windowsill and slammed it shut behind him, scurrying away from it in a hope that anyone looking wouldn't see which window he exited from.

(He really needed a better system for leaving his apartment.)

He scaled the wall quickly, stopping on the roof where he leapt into the air with a cry of exuberance.

Flinging a hand out to catch himself on a web, he swung upwards in a graceful arc. His fingertips reached skywards as if they could skim the clouds and he closed his eyes at the highest point of his swing. Releasing his web, he let himself free fall.

The shift of air on his spandex hugged him in a cool caress as he spiraled back down towards the sidewalk below. He fell until his Spidey-sense began to hum and only then did he crack open his eyes to glance at the next spot he needed to aim his web-shooters at.

Skimming the ground, he dragged himself up and sped around a building corner. His feet slammed against the skyscraper as he ran with bounding strides on the windows covering the structure.

"Karen, have you got any crime for me?" he shouted to try to make up for the loud wind in his ears.

"Yes, Peter. If you turn right two blocks from here, there is a disturbance at a bank consisting of an in-progress robbery. Police have been dispatched and are en route, presently. Mapping a course for you now," she replied sweetly.

"Thanks, Karen," he hollered.

Flipping forward, he twisted in midair to head towards the path set up on his mask's HUD.

It didn't take him more than a minute to reach the bank and, once he did, he almost groaned at the cliché-ness of the situation. He would have had it not been such a serious and delicate situation.

As it was, he settled for a heavy sigh and planned the best way to intervene whilst also avoiding civilian casualties or injuries.

"Coming through," he yelled, vaulting over squad cars and curious pedestrians alike.

Gasps went through the crowd and fingers pointed up at him from the people on the ground as he soared over people's heads with a jaunty wave.

He landed on the roof of the bank with a soft thud and crawled swiftly and quietly inside the building as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He remained as flat as he could on the ceiling, trying to avoid any of the robbers from spotting him.

In the middle of the room stood a masked thief holding a gun to a middle-aged man's head. The hostage was shaking with his palms raised in supplication as he sat stiffly on his knees. Two other criminals were guarding the front room of the bank and the rest of the customers and workers sat nervously on the edges of the rooms, eyeing the guns with trepidation.

Peter slunk to the middle of the room and shot his webs out quickly to detain the weapons aimed at the civilians. The perpetrators gaped in shock as he webbed their guns to the ground and he used their inaction to his advantage as he restrained them against the ground with more webs. He made sure to cover their mouths so they couldn't alert the criminals he was sure were working in the back of the bank.

Making a 'shh'-ing motion with his hand he winked at the awestruck citizens and shooed them out of the front of the building, checking behind him to make sure none of the remaining robbers were coming up behind him. They whispered both excitedly and relieved under their breaths and he tried not to get too annoyed at their lack of recognition of the danger still behind them.

Once the hostages had made it out safely, he flipped back onto the ceiling and began to sneak to the back of the bank. The whole scenario and setting were like something out of an action movie and he felt a little bit strange being in the middle of it all.

Sometimes, it was hard to remember just how different he was now from the asthmatic boy he had been years ago. Sometimes, it was hard to accept just how much had changed.

It felt a little melancholy to think like that, but it was better to feel sad than to not feel anything at all.

(That's what he told himself, anyway.)

He turned the last corner and his breath left him in a great gust of wind as he saw silver hair peek out of the mask of one of the bank robbers. He tried not to let it make him feel inferior and small and like he wasn't fit to be a hero, but it was hard not to when the evidence of his panic lied in the swift crests of his chest against his suit.

(_It's not Skip, it's not Skip, it's not Skip,_ he tried to tell himself but a torturous part of him asked, 'how do you know?'

And to that, he didn't truly have an answer.)

He clenched his eyes shut and turned away for a moment before turning back and jumping to the ground.

"Having some trouble there?" he called as he sauntered up to the startled crooks struggling to open the safe door, dutifully ignoring the white-haired man's defining trait and his own distress at his appearance.

The 3 men whirled around and, even through the masks, Peter could see their eyes grow panicked at his appearance.

"You know, I'm pretty sure this one's a push door, not a pull, but I can't be certain," he joked and then swerved quickly as one of the men shot off a bullet.

"Hey! Hey!" he gasped dramatically, "that's dangerous! Watch where you're pointing that thing!"

He deemed the spindly man who shot at him 'trigger-happy' in his brain and took a sort of perverted pleasure in naming the one who had Skip's hair, 'creep'. The last man was bulky and large and he aptly named him 'muscles'.

'Muscles' turned around and continued his work of getting the safe open, seemingly indifferent to Spider-Man's presence or trusting his companions to protect him. Peter was amused at his lack of reaction while the other 2 seemed scared shitless of him.

'Trigger-happy' made a move to shoot his gun again and Peter retaliated by flinging out his wrists and webbing both his and 'creep's' guns to the floor. 'Creep' ran at him with a sloppy punch and Peter responded by moving his head to the side and tying him up against the wall with his web-shooters.

The lanky man's knees shook and he seemed to want to run but the corner behind him prevented any escape so he just stared with terrified eyes at Peter as he was restrained as well.

"I wanna feel sorry, man, but I just can't. I mean, robbing a bank in broad daylight? Without the proper tools to get a safe open?" he tsk-ed and shook his head, turning to deal with the last offender, "that's just asking to get arrested."

'Muscles' looked up again with an apathy in his eyes that Peter was strangely envious of as he cracked his knuckles threateningly.

"Dude, I don't know if you've heard, but," he gestured to his arms as he struck a pose, "I've got super strength so, that's not _really_ that intimidating."

The man's response was to grab and cock his gun, firing at him with a menacing stare. Peter frowned as he dodged the shot.

"No habla inglés?" he questioned, dancing around 'muscles' bullets before he stuck the man's gun to the ground as well.

The man growled and swung a much more well-coordinated punch in his direction that Peter caught easily.

"Are you just the quiet type or do you not understand a word I'm saying?" he asked, pausing the fight briefly as he moved the man's fist to the side to stare him head-on.

"Man, give me something here," he whined, "You're, like, the walking – not-talking – cliché of stupid, dumb henchman."

The 'stupid, dumb henchman' didn't deem that worthy of a response and Peter sighed exasperatedly at his stubbornness. Flinging the man over his shoulder, he pinned him to the ground and checked the safe door for bombs.

(Yes, bombs. People _actually_ used bombs to open them sometimes and no, Peter was _not_ kidding.)

After seeing that the coast was clear, he went to the front desk and ripped a piece of paper off a notepad to scribble a letter to the police on. Pinning it to 'muscles' forehead – who was still seeming strangely apathetic about his position – he stepped back to survey his work.

Nodding in satisfaction, he crawled out of the first window he came across and swung away, whooping and hollering to the heavens that he was there – that he was someone that mattered – and trying to ignore that the only time he felt safe was behind a mask.

(What made Spider-Man so different than Peter Parker that fear could be exhaled on a breath and terror never truly took root in his veins? What changed between the spandex and the skin that made him so very different?

What made it easier to live without woes in a costumed suit rather than his own skin?)

* * *

Peter flopped onto his bed and grinned excitedly into the pillow. He was exhausted and he had a few bruises, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

In fact, he slightly relished in the minuscule discomfort of his sore limbs shifting against the bedsheets. Rolling over onto his back, he released his suit until it hung loosely off his limbs like a onesie. He slid it off his body in one smooth motion and jumped off the bed to shimmy into pajamas.

A sudden knock on the door had him frantically kick the incriminating suit to a dark corner under his bed. He quickly jumped back onto the bed, sitting upright and warily staring at the door.

"Yes," he called, hoping it was Aunt May.

"Hey, Pete," the blessedly soft voice of his aunt called, "can I come in?"

"Yeah," he called back, lying down again on his stomach and exhaling a breath of relief.

The door creaked open and he beamed up at his aunt dopily from the bed. She smiled back affectionately and sat on the bed beside him, closing the door behind her.

"So, how was it?" she asked, her hand reaching to play gently with his curls but pausing at his significant wince.

She gave him a long look but he just shrugged bashfully at her and tried to quell his panic at her penetrating stare.

"It was fine," he said and she gave him a dull glare.

(He didn't pretend that that didn't hurt – that he wasn't swimming through guilt-riddled waters just to breathe – but he masked it.

He didn't pretend that that didn't hurt, because he couldn't really hide from himself all that well – no matter how hard he tried – but he could always pretend to others.

He was so good at wearing masks – he wore one for a reason.)

"Oh, really?" she asked, her voice tinged with sarcasm.

"Yeah, really," he said, raising his eyebrows emphatically.

"Fine, fine. I'll leave it," she responded with her hands held up defensively

"I'm glad you're okay," she continued quietly, "any issues?"

"No, not at all," he answered, meeting her skeptical eyes with his serious ones.

She smiled back and leaned in to kiss his forehead and his entire body tensed so as not to flinch at the action. As soon as she pulled away he rolled onto his back to put some distance between them and gave her a guarded smile which she returned with an amused eyebrow raise.

"That's good," she conceded, cautiously, and he nodded.

He had always been a tactile person, but something about touch, recently, had made him want to scrub his skin off until it bled. It felt like a thousand insects scuttling uncomfortably under his skin and his spine went ramrod straight in response to any movement that happened close to him.

The only thing that helped was the suit, it seemed, as he noticed that in being Spider-Man, he had yet to feel that familiar panic at physical interaction. Perhaps it was because the touch he encountered in his suit was often more violent in nature as compared to the _soft, soft, soft_ touch of naked hands on his body that made his skin crawl. Perhaps it was because it lacked any affection at all and the absence of familiarity gave him an illusion of safety.

(Perhaps being Spider-Man truly did give him some sort of an identity disorder.)

"I brought home some Pizza tonight as a celebration for your first day back. You good with that?" she asked, tilting her head to the side and letting her hair fall over her shoulder.

He nodded, "yeah, I'm good with that."

Giving him one last loving look, his Aunt stood and left him to rest.

"I love you, kiddo," she called out, turning to blow him a kiss.

"Love you too, May," he mumbled and stuffed his face back into the pillow to hide his pleased blush.

(When Peter was 16-years-old, he went to sleep with kind hands on his mind and dreamt of a love that he had almost forgotten.)


	8. Hourglass

**Chapter Summary: **It was a cycle, endlessly spinning through the concept of time - intangible. Incomplete and constant. (Always, evermore.)

* * *

_We, the burdens of infinity_

_Shift like autumn leaves upon sun-stroked wind_

_But these abyss' of starlight lies_

_Scald hot and heavy upon our eyes_

* * *

There was a certain set of rules he had to follow – a firm expectation of responsibilities that he had set up alongside his aunt and Mr. Stark. These sometimes didn't align with his own views of responsibility, but he would rather adapt to their confined ideals than lose being Spider-Man altogether.

One of their expectations was the amount of time he spent as Spider-Man. He believed that he should spend every moment he could fighting crime, while theirs consisted of much stricter curfews and a designated rest day a week. He struggled not to fight on this last issue, but he knew that some sacrifices had to be made to continue doing what he loved.

He just never thought that his trademark carelessness was so very prevalent on the nights when he _did _go out as Spider-Man

His Spider-Sense was a constant buzz at the back of his neck any time he neared his apartment now and, as a result, the bags under his eyes were dark crescents of bruised skin from lack of sleep. This constant buzz also prevented a lot of things from catching his attention and made him all the warier of entering his apartment by the fire escape.

Except when it mattered most, of course.

He really should have listened when Aunt May told him to take a break for the night.

He had had two incredible weeks of Spider-Manning when he woke with a gasp, sweat pooling on his skin and making his clothes stick to him uncomfortably. His phone clattered noisily on his nightstand, ringing from a call as he clutched an arm to his chest. He gripped tightly at his shirt, the material bunching under clenched fingers. His hand wandered aimlessly over the table grasping for his phone as he panted loudly, the remnants of fear evident in his wide, panicked eyes.

"Kid?! You there? Karen says your vitals indicated extreme distress, what's happening? Do you need me to come get you?" Tony's voice rung out from the phone, worried and quick.

"N-o," his voice broke and he coughed to lower it, "No, Mr. Stark, I-I'm fine."

"I can come," Mr. Stark insisted, and Peter wondered how many times he would have to wake up from a nightmare before Mr. Stark realized he had only been sleeping, "if you need me, I'll be there in a second."

The watch that constantly monitored his vitals blinked red and he glared at it as if it was its fault entirely. He usually said yes to this sort of thing – this comfort after night time fits of fright and helplessness all wrapped up in tangled bedsheets – but saying yes right now filled him with a sense of dread.

[How could he let Tony into this room, this torture chamber of a home? Tony would surely notice, could probably feel it in the air – the shift between sickness and health, the walls that contained sinful happenings rather than teenaged mundanity.

(His soulful poverty in the face of abundant emotional wealth.)]

"No, I'm fine," he reassured, "I just – bad dream, y'know?"

He heard what sounded like a sigh of relief and Peter relaxed back onto the bed, blinking sleepily at the ceiling.

"Okay. Good," Mr. Stark said, and Peter huffed a small laugh at his muffled curse, "I mean not good. Not good at all."

"Mm-hh?" Peter hummed sarcastically, his heartbeat slowing. and he could practically see his mentor's eye roll and smirk even through the phone.

"Okay, maybe I'm slightly glad that you're not bleeding out in an alley somewhere," Mr. Stark conceded.

"It's like, almost midnight," Peter mumbled, tiredness creeping in his veins like warm hot cocoa on a cold winter's night.

"Exactly!" Tony exclaimed, "the perfect time for you to be out gallivanting across Queens like a reckless teenager."

"Oh, wait," Mr. Stark deadpanned, "that's exactly what you are."

"You caught me," Peter grinned softly, "I was just having a break night tonight."

"Well, kiddo," his mentor murmured in response, "you sure you don't need anything?"

Peter twisted his lips in thought.

"Well," he started, "going out as Spider-Man right now sounds really appealing, but it's only a bit until curfew…"

He trailed off, knowing Mr. Stark knew what he meant.

"What time did you get to bed, Underoos?" Tony asked, defeat lacing his tone.

"9 o'clock," he chirped, already rolling off the bed as his lethargy disappeared into thin air.

"Okay, well," there was the sound of tapping on the other side of the phone, "I just disabled the suit's lockdown timer so you should be free to spider it out for… hmm, two and a half hours sound good?"

"Sounds great, Mr. Stark," he answered, shuffling around the room in search of the suit.

"Alright," Tony sighed, "see ya Wednesday, kiddo."

"See ya," he called back, shimmying into his suit and slipping his mask on.

The phone beeped a long note after the call ended and Peter cringed at it, reaching to turn it off.

Slipping out of the window and swinging away, Peter beamed at the night sky above. He twirled through the air like a dancer, his body twisting into elegant silhouettes back-dropped by the heavens.

(The nightmare was forgotten – left behind in the dusty swirl of time whirling constantly between us all like sand in an hourglass.

Slipping. Sliding.

_Gone._)

* * *

When he thought back on it all, he couldn't help but notice the similarities between each defining event of his life – each earth-shattering happenstance.

(It happened the same way it always did.)

When he was 7 his parents left him behind and flew to their deaths.

He hears the news and it's _death, death, death. Fear, fear, fear._

_Hands, hands, hands._

It could have been a metaphorical death or a real one but he supposed all of his defining moments were rotting with the stench of demise. Whether it was a decaying of the soul or the body all depended on the exact happenings.

(He is 7 and his stomach drops and he feels as though he's been dunked into _cold, cold, cold_ water and there are the hands of his Aunt and Uncle holding him tight – _too tight, too tight, too tight._

And on the air, he can smell the acrid scent of burning flesh – and on that day, he smelt death.)

When he was 8 he met a boy with a nasty grin called 'Flash' who liked to hurt others because he couldn't deal with his own hurt. It was a time of external execution of self – a crushing of childish hope and a baring of humanity to the cruel comforts of the world.

It was the fear of walking down hallways with mean words biting at his heels and social anxiety stringing up his neck like a live-wire of dread.

It was rough hands – pushing, shoving, hitting, tugging – and there was nothing to this but childish whims of callousness that we so foolishly call 'boys being boys'.

(As if it is an excuse.)

When he was 9, his babysitter began to sexually abuse him. He was slain by fear and overwhelmed by hands.

His soul was left a smoldering fire after this painful inferno of trauma had burnt it to ash. It was a sputtering flame of life.

His heart was a hummingbird thumping in his chest.

And the hands were all he felt – _too close, too tight, too much._

He was 14 when his Uncle bled heavy on his hands.

It was death in a literal sense – a shining example of the fragility of mortality. It was the cold thump of a corpse on concrete and the rasp of a man's last words echoing in a young boy's ears.

He was fearful then as well, with a shaking, stuttering tongue too terrified to say anything.

Then, there were the hands.

(Pulling, grabbing, shaking – as he screamed into the night.)

There were always hands.

(It happened the same way it always did.

It happened the same way.

It _happened._)

When Peter was five his father took him to a pool to learn how to swim.

Peter remembered the calmness of the water as he opened his eyes in the burning chlorine and felt his chest tighten from the lack of air. It wasn't the same as looking through tears, but it was similar. He had sputtered, then, choking for a breath that wasn't there as he drifted beneath the surface of the water he splashed with panicked hands.

He had turned the pool into a stormy sea, creating tempestuous waves with clenched, toddler fists grasping for oxygen he so desperately needed.

There was a second where he had calmed, a clear, but still so terrifying moment where he had observed the grimy tiles lining the walls and watched bubbles fly up his legs and over his face to pop freely upon the surface; reaching the liberty of atmosphere enviously easy compared to his nearly suffocating new perspective on his own mortality. He had stilled, then, inspecting the underwater world around him with wide and morbidly intrigued eyes as his lungs screamed in protest.

Then, he had struggled again, scrabbling at nothing to try to reach the surface which seemed so far away.

He had a fear of drowning after that, even when his father had dragged him back to safety and hugged him tightly in his arms. He had been afraid of so many things, once.

That fear of drowning went away sometime between being tied down by a parachute in the Hudson River and having a building crush the breath out from his lungs. A lot of his fears went away somewhere during that time. That wasn't to say he didn't experience fear, just that there was no specific phobia he could name for a while – nothing that popped out above a general and constant anxiety.

(Besides that cycle of _death, death, death. Fear, fear, fear._

_Hands, hands, hands._

There was something intrinsically intimidating about broad hands cupping your flesh within their fingers and stroking over places that ought not to be touched. There was something nightmarish to a man who could rip your muscles to shreds with soft touches instead of harsh blows.)

He had one true fear left, you see. He had one secret left to cling to, one identity hidden away from Skip's grubby fingers.

But, it happened the same way it always did as he stood in his - _apparently_ \- unlocked bedroom facing a monster of a man in what a billionaire so affectionately called a onesie.

**It happened the same way it _always_ did.**

(Death.

Fear.

Hands.

It was all so similar.)

He was dying from this simple sense of vision. He was bleeding out upon the floor from this act of sight.

Skip grinned maliciously and there was nothing Peter could do but sob as the cold blue eyes that met his own twinkled gleefully.

"Hello, Spider-Man."

(It happened the same way it always did.)

He was a sandcastle, feeble and small made of too little, built up to too much, only to fall evermore to the constant tide that swept at the shores.

(When Peter was 16-years-old, his poorly constructed house of a heart crumbled to dirt beneath cruel fists.)


	9. To Drown in a Bathtub

**Chapter Summary: **A depression is managed - so soft as a storm. He'll drown in his sorrow, he'll never feel warm.

**A/N: there is a statement about a religious element that is mocked/insulted mildly but does not necessarily reflect my views. This is from Peter's perspective and I kind of view him as an atheist/agnostic who lives with Christian traditions. I have it in my head that the Peter in this verse prayed for help as a child and never received any and so, even if he did believe in God, he'd really dislike him and believe he was cruel. I know the Peter in the comics prays a few times, but this one won't, and if he will, it will be antagonistic towards God. Again, don't necessarily agree with him, but that's how I view his character. Please know that anything that seems like a diss to religion is not meant as an insult to any of your views or a reflection of how I view religion or God/gods/deities.**

* * *

_It is a blistering heat, this hard-fought sunrise_

_It rises above the curve of the earth like a reckoning_

_Balancing on the precipice of nothing_

_It's weight bears down upon our fragile humanity_

* * *

He had lost track of the time somewhere around three weeks in.

(It had been a month and no one had said a word about Skip's presence. It had been a month and the demon in their midst continued to thrive off the flesh of Peter – suckling at his soul like he was a particularly ripe fruit.

It had been a month since Skip had arrived, yet here they were.)

"Stark Internship, huh?" Skip questioned with a smirk as Peter sputtered excuses, "Oh, don't even try to lie. I _had_ been wondering if there was something more _sinister_ going on there, but this?"

He laughed, throwing his head back with morbid delight.

"This is so much better than Stark being some kinda Sugar Daddy," he proclaimed, his words slipping like silk off his tongue, deadly and dangerous.

Skip brushed Peter's ear with his lips, speaking in what might have been a seductive voice if it weren't so terrifying to hear, "this is useful, isn't it? I wondered where you ran off to so late and why dear, sweet May would ever let her weak, little boy walk all the way home by himself."

His voice sounded deceptively beautiful sometimes, drawing Peter into some sick state of calm even when his body was wound tight with adrenaline and horror. It fell from Skip's mouth like poisoned wine, sickly sweet and tart all wrapped up in a beautiful sculpture of barbed wire and glimmering fangs.

His words, on the other hand, were as sharp and jagged as shrapnel piercing his chest. The insinuation behind them and the threats lining each syllable never failed to make him clench his fists in a combination of rage and disgust.

(There was always a mark, after. There were always bloody indents scarring his palm for him to trace. A memorial, of sorts. A tribute to his fallen innocence and the hours all blemished by pain.

The marks were wounded crescents left in his skin from his fingernails. The fragile tissue would knit back together fast enough to mock him with that everlasting fact that, _'You aren't human, anymore. **You aren't human.'**_

He would sometimes press into them with his thumb, letting the dull throb of awareness trickle in with the slight pain of it – the slight burn that reminded him that, '_You're still mortal. You're still fallible.'_ The pain that made him feel alive.)

"I wondered what you were up to," Skip mocked, his eyes narrowed and cold with malicious pleasure, "there could have been so many naughty things you were doing – up so late in the middle of the night like you were. But, being the neighborhood boy scout was unexpected. Though, I guess I can't say I'm surprised."

He leaned back onto the headboard of the bed and examined Peter with a raised eyebrow.

"How'd it happen?" Skip wondered, voice casual and light.

"W-what?" Peter asked, surprised by the question and sudden shift of tone.

He was clutching at his chest tightly as if the fitted fabric of his suit was impeding his breath. He wanted to rip it off, but Skip's glaring eyes seeing him bared and open was a much more terrifying option than the possibility of the constricting material choking him to death.

"Oh, don't be like that Petey Pie," Skip teased unkindly, "you know what I mean. How'd you become Spider-Man? You certainly didn't have any powers last time I saw you. In fact, I distinctly remember you having asthma and being unable to run a mile without fainting."

"U-um," Peter stuttered, wondering if he should say but also knowing that he didn't have a choice either way, "radioactive spider bite."

Skip chuckled, before looking back to Peter's pale and sweaty face and breaking out into greater guffaws.

"You-you're serious?" he asked, though it was clearly rhetorical, "oh that is too funny. And you just couldn't sit by and let people get hurt, could you?"

"With great power comes great responsibility," Peter mumbled, slouching and kicking lightly at the floor with his toe at Skip's condescending tone.

"Ah," Skip nodded sagely, "sanctimonious bullshit. I suppose you want to help others 'cause you can't seem to help yourself. Isn't that right, Peter?"

Peter's posture wilted further inward like a dying flower and he picked at his spandex-clad thigh with a trembling hand. His eyes seared with unshed tears that clung to his eyelashes as if they were the only things that could save them from falling.

(From crashing to the ground like an abandoned satellite hurtling through the atmosphere.)

"Isn't that right, Peter?" Skip repeated, leaning in menacingly.

His words were tight and clipped and Peter straightened his back reflexively in response. He nodded limply and choked a little, grimacing on an unsung sob.

"Well, what do we do now?" he asked and Peter shivered, on the verge of a panic attack with knowing this man – this _monster_ – knew his identity.

"What do we do now?" he echoed, and Peter scathingly thought that he most likely repeated it for dramatic effect.

"You know, I was going to sign off on the new apartment tomorrow," he noted carelessly and Peter felt as though his bones were laden with dread.

"I'd have been out in two days and we'd part it at that. No need to make anyone suspicious. But Peter, you've got enemies. Big ones, ones who don't mind hurting your pretty, little Aunt and ones who won't care that you're a teenager. So where does that bring us?" he inquired, one hand stroking up Peter's leg.

"Do you want me to stay here? Do you want me to protect you, Peter?"

Peter shut his eyes tightly, something in him building as his muscles tensed impossibly tighter.

Skip's mouth brushed his cheek and Peter jumped, pushing himself away from Skip and backing into the wall. He gripped the drywall in his fingers and ground the plaster to dust that gathered and caked beneath his nails. Gouging the wall, he clenched his hand into a fist, collecting the dusty paint and wood in his palm.

"No," he croaked, shaking his head with his eyes clamped tight, "No! No, I don't want that! I want you to leave and never come back! I want you to-o…"

(Too little, too late – it was too late for this now.)

His voice cracked and he started to bawl, curling his arms up to his face and pushing his hot eyes into his forearms as he pulled his hair taut between his fingers.

"I wish," he hiccupped on a loud sob, "I wish I never met you! I wish –"

He moaned and fell to the floor, hiccupping and coughing as he wept. He curved into himself and rocked in a tight ball on the carpet.

"I wish – I wish," he cried.

(_He wished. He wished. He wished._

But wishing never worked for anyone and praying was for fools.)

"Oh, if wishes were horses," Skip said, sounding fondly amused.

Peter whined pathetically in response and Skip wrapped his arms around Peter's shoulders, rubbing a deceptively comforting thumb into his sore muscles. Peter leaned into the touch, blind with tears and a heady adrenaline rush of distress.

He tried not to feel comforted by it.

(He wasn't sure it worked.)

When Peter woke up, it was to the smell of pancakes and Skip's cologne seeped into his bedsheets.

He blinked blearily against the bright grey light of the day, squinting at the dark clouds hanging heavily against the Queens skyline. Looking around confusedly, he propped himself on his elbow and massaged his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. His head pounded from the light and he stumbled out of his blankets to close the curtains.

He always closed the curtains so he was confused at the brightness invading his room through his open window.

(He was also confused about his open window.)

Shivering through his boxers and wishing for his regular pajamas, he shuffled to the wall and pulled his blinds shut. Sighing in relief, he stumbled back to his bed and curled into the warmth of his blanket, pressing his fists into his eyes and rubbing the sleep out of them, harshly.

He wondered if sleep would ever make him feel rested again.

(He wondered what would happen next.)

There was a bruise on his wrist from where Skip had grabbed on his arm too harshly, tugging the frozen and bawling teen towards his destruction. Skip's eyes had widened then, and he had rushed to the freezer to retrieve an ice pack to soothe the injury, muttering apologies along the way.

(There is a fine line between hate and love. Peter tried not to feel like that was love.)

He had held Peter as he cried, massaging at his forearm and whispering sweet nothings like he cared.

(For a moment, it felt like he had.)

But, then.

(_But, then. But, but, but –_

There was always a 'but'.)

Skip had chuckled a little, and said, "good thing it's October. Long sleeves in summer would be pretty suspicious, wouldn't it?"

And Peter had remembered, like a rush of waves returning to the sea from their brief vacation to the shore. Peter remembered his hate to this one man.

(Peter remembered his soul all crushed to splinters under Skip's heel.)

Peter remembered everything – what this was all about.

(What was this all about? What was its purpose, anyway?)

Peter remembered that nothing about this – about Skip rubbing ice into his wounds and kissing his tears away – nothing about this was for him.

This was about selfishness.

This was lined with hate and Peter never wanted to confuse that with love.

He thought it might have been easier had he not known that this act could be done for love. He thought it was so much harder to know that some hands could feel softer than Skip's strange and scary touches. He thought of the pain in his chest and ached because it could have been love.

(_It could have been love_, and that made it so much worse.)

He thought of first kisses and held onto the emptiness in his heart when he realized that his was stolen at 9 years old. He thought of the ideals of virginity and purity and sobbed for he could not have it.

He couldn't and he didn't think he ever would.

(_This would never be love._

It was hate.)

Wrapping the blanket tightly around his shoulders, he huddled into himself and waddled clumsily to the kitchen. His wrist, stained a mottled blue and purple, poked out of the mass around his body like a skeleton's as he reached for the fridge handle, ignoring the lukewarm pancakes spread on the counter.

(He was supposed to heal quickly. He was supposed to see pink-ish skin all silken and supple reach out from muscular arms.)

He looked at his arm and frowned at the grey tone of his skin clinging tight to his fragile bones. He had lost weight, he knew that, but he supposed it was more than he had thought.

(He wondered when people would notice and tried not to think that they might not care enough to see.)

Rustling through the fridge, he sighed and walked back to his room – not hungry, it seemed.

(He was never hungry anymore.)

Skip was at church on Sunday mornings like this. He wanted to be thankful for it – and some lonely part of him was – but he mostly despised it. He mostly wanted to scream at the man, to yell and curse his sin.

(To face the devil head-on and break him with his mighty fists.

But he sometimes wondered who the devil was in the first place. Was _he_ the devil, all tied up in wickedness? Was he a friend to the evil in man? Or was he just a victim of circumstance, falling to hellfire and succumbing to its brutality?

The devil sometimes whispered to him – whispered cruelly in his ear and asked him if he was strong enough for all this. Asked him if it was even worth it to keep moving.

He didn't know the answer yet.)

Grabbing a towel from the linen closet and some pajamas, he trudged his tired body to the bathroom, praying to a God that he didn't believe in for some meaning.

(And everybody laughed inside his head. 'Prayers,' they said, the voices mocking and mean, 'aren't meaningful at all.'

He wondered how they could all fit in there – the devil on his shoulder and the angel in his heart. He wondered where they all came from, so cruel inside his mind.)

Fumbling with the faucet, he shakily turned the water on as high as it could go. Watching it fill, he poured a large dollop of bubble solution into the tub and foamed the soap with his hands. The muggy room filled with the scent of eucalyptus and he tried not to feel suffocated by the steam.

(He keeps trying. He tries and he tries and he tries.

But nothing he does really matters, does it?)

It was close to the top when he turned the stream off. Swishing his hand through the warmth, he settled into the water and it wrapped around him like a cocoon. His eyes scrunched tightly against the warm suds and he pressed his lips closed in a thin line to block any of the liquid and bubbles from reaching his mouth.

The water was hot, hotter than some would deem acceptable, and it tingled painfully across his skin like a wildfire. It made his skin itch with discomfort that almost felt like a punishment.

(He wondered if he deserved it.)

Peter had always felt like there was some spark in him that just couldn't die and he had thought that that might have meant something. Peter had thought it had meant that he mattered – that there was something meaningful in his life.

It was like there was an ember sitting stubbornly in the dying flame of his heart. It was like he wouldn't give up hope, wouldn't vanish into dust.

And that had made him feel invincible.

But when even that sole ember sputters and leaves only a faintly glowing piece of ash, was that really a will to live? Would that tiny, little spark that had once been so vibrant be able to power the same kind spirit it had before?

Peter was tired – a tiredness that didn't bloom from his body, but his soul.

Peter was so very tired. The kind of tired that made you want to fall asleep and never wake up. The kind of tired where life seemed like a blur and anything of importance seemed startlingly trivial, but overwhelming all the same.

The kind of tired where breathing felt like tremendous effort and where he thought his lungs might crumble from the weight of his chest.

He didn't necessarily want to die, but he didn't want to live either. It was like apathy had rooted itself in his heart, leeching away the life out of his bones. He didn't want to die, no, but he sure as hell wasn't living.

He hadn't been living for months.

He sometimes imagined falling asleep and never waking up again. It made him smile, his lips cracking across his face like a fracture in his skin.

But, again, he didn't want to die – just fade away. There was a much larger difference than people thought. It was as if something was perpetually lodged in his throat, weighing down his chest and stealing away his air. It felt like every breath he breathed in was missing something. Like he was choking on nothing but still attaining his required oxygen.

He didn't know if it was words knotting in his lungs, tying his ribcage tight and locking up his veins. He didn't know if he was at the precipice of panic just waiting to be felled.

He just knew that every breath felt like splinters were diving into his soul, and a corset clenched taut upon his body, obstructing the very movement of his torso. Even though his breaths remained steady, his chest felt like it was stuttering in its confines.

Even breathing felt like a chore.

(When he goes, how far will he go? Will he snap like a brittle bamboo stock bent too far?

Will he crash and burn with it, falling like a disgraced angel to the depths of hell below?)

He remembered praying before the call of the universe had swayed his faith into little more than a forgotten dream. He remembered clasped hands and wet eyes screaming at God to save him and being unsurprised when no one answered.

Peter had always been practical.

(Strings are binding his hands together and he has knelt like he has sat down for prayer, but he cannot pray anymore to the nothingness that resonates through him – through the universe.

It had let him down far too many times.)

He wanted to stay beneath the water and slowly flicker out. He wanted to be a lightbulb at the end of its life, short-circuiting on forgotten and rusty wires.

He wanted to fade away.

Some people took showers, some went days without washing.

Peter liked to submerge himself in bathwater and pretend he was drowning.

(When Peter was 16-years-old, he was chopped down from his perch, falling to depression and despair. When Peter was 16, he lost his will to live.)


	10. Flytraps of Honey

**Chapter Summary: **A breakdown can be loud - magnificent and garish. A breakdown can be soft - subtle like the scent of flowers on a spring breeze. A breakdown can be immeasurable. A breakdown can be silent. And Peter has broken down in every single way - what more is there for him to experience? What horrors has he yet to know?

(A breakdown can build up.)

* * *

_It is the same – this light, this heat_

_It beats sharp upon sand-scarred and unblemished backs across the globe_

_It is indiscriminant – this light, this heat_

_It burns without a woe_

* * *

"I'm fine," he would say to Aunt May and Mr. Stark and Ned and they would look away like he wasn't lying.

Like he wasn't dying inside from the weight of this all.

"I'm fine!" he would scream like it meant something.

Like it somehow changed the fact that he very clearly wasn't

It astonished Peter how well he could lie when it came to the topic of Skip. Last month, if he were to lie to Tony or May's face he would've only received a raised eyebrow in response. Now, no one even batted an eye.

It unsettled him.

It made something in his chest wither. Did they know? Did they not care?

(Oh, _please, please please just notice. Don't you see? Please just see. Please, please, please_ – )

It broke his heart a little every time they listened to his words and turned away like everything was fine.

(_Please, don't believe me. Nothing is fine. Please, please, please_ – )

The lies felt like glass cutting his tongue and they curled in his belly, heavy and cold.

(He thinks this was what shame felt like.

He thinks he rather hates it.)

Peter supposed it was going to happen eventually – that someone would see it in his eyes or catch on to his slow and steady deterioration.

He just never expected it to be a stranger. He just never expected it to happen this way.

* * *

There was blood on his hands, they were dripping with it. There was so much blood staining the world, splattering on his face like teardrops and seeping into the ground like that was where it sprung from in the first place.

(There's so much blood, his lies are soaked with it – marinated in the water of mortality.)

There was so much blood and it shouldn't be outside of him. It's Uncle Ben's blood and it's red, so crimson and coppery like the metal of a fire hydrant – steel and unbending. It was slick and it dripped out of Ben like a faucet, flowing out of his flesh with the soft gurgle of a stream rushing over bedrock.

It was Peter's fault. It was Peter's fault and he had to finish this. To stop the man who did this because Ben was dead and there was blood on his hands and he couldn't do this anymore.

(He thinks he can taste it, like fake sugar leaving a bad aftertaste on one's tongue. Sitting heavy and stewing in his mouth until it had permeated his gums and saturated his soul with the noxious blatancy of his failures.)

He was coiled muscle wrapped in tenuously structured skin, flayed at the edges of his very existence. His consciousness was absent, floating through the plasma of infinity and nothingness – the being of the universe itself.

Peter was drowning in the liquid of his Uncle's veins. Choking on vermillion and metal tang as his breath was forced from his lungs with a staccato awkwardness – like the failing limbs of a newborn foal as it clambered to its' mother.

The sky was mauve – blue staining purple from the red drenching the atmosphere. Starlight peeked out behind wispy clouds in pinpricks of bright white, cutting through the city's pollution just to remind him how alone he was. How very insignificant he was in this world.

His hands, sticky and wet, clung tightly to his knees as he rocked to the beat of his racing heart. It thumped in his chest like a drum and echoed harshly in his temples. Pulsing and pounding, it resonated loudly in his ears and he clutched them in his oversensitivity.

So loud was his heart screaming his fear that he thought he might go deaf from it. Curled into a ball, he whimpered into his thighs from pain and panic. Tears carved great rivers down his cheeks and cooled the hot surface of his skin like ash laid over a dying ember.

Peter's eyes, clenched shut in the face of this resurfaced trauma, opened to gaze at the obnoxiously colored hands of his suit.

(He couldn't tell if they were the shade of dark cherry lifeblood or the bright red of a firetruck.)

Sitting there, on a rooftop looking over the cold and impersonal skyline of the city, he broke down loudly. Like a glass crashing and shattering on the floor, it was the beautiful magnificence of disaster.

(It was the terrifying shriek of a child who has seen unspeakable horrors. It was the plea of a boy stuck in the honeyed flytrap of Hell.)

There was no ceremony to catastrophes – no need for class or propriety when it came to misfortune of any kind. It was just the primal ache of a damaged soul wrenched confusedly from normality and left without a guide back.

(Nor with a guide for how to navigate the damage itself.)

Peter startled from his memories, jumping lightly and tensing as a hand settled carefully on his back. His face, still covered by his mask, looked back to see _red, red, red_ –

(The blood of the man shot in the alley that night was dark and glossy as it stained the concrete. It looked like the skin of a black cherry and rippled as Peter knelt in it – _so much blood._

Peter had pressed shaking hands to the man's gruesome wounds as he quailed, quivering against the cold of blood loss on the dirty ground.)

The blob of red shook him and he wailed louder, curling away from the offensive color. He looked to his legs and marveled the damage with blurred vision, a frightful numbness leaking through his taut muscles and aching head. Streetlights shone brightly alongside the office lights of the still occupied windows of skyscrapers and they cast a yellow glow upon his bared skin and spandex suit.

(The long gashes on his shin are stained with golden ichor, contrasted brilliantly against the scarlet fluid of his memories. They pervade his every thought and translate over to his present fingers like a stain that won't scrub out.

Peter is in the present and 2 years in the past all at once. He is also stuck in the gluey seconds of fifteen minutes ago leaving gore to transpose itself vividly against his shivering limbs.)

Peter thought he heard something – a deep rumble vibrating through the focal point on his back. It buzzed in his ears until it was mumbled syllables. And then, garbled words seeped through as though a voice was speaking through a faulty radio set that hadn't quite balanced its' channel.

"Come on, kid. Breathe. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 – in," here, the male speaker breathed in an exaggerated breath, "5, 4, 3, 2, 1 out."

He pushed air out heavily and Peter tuned into the words as the hand moved with the man's breath.

Wheezing and seizing up as if his throat was sealed by the terror of his unspoken admissions, Peter followed the man's commands. He was coiled tight in a spasm of limbs reaching inwards and motionless in postmortem like the corpses of dead spiders curled in dusty corners. He peeled his body from his locked position to gasp at the sky and stretch out like a bird readying its' wings for flight.

Peter was weighed down by his inaction, his inability to rise above his terror, his cyclical and constant fear. He was trapped, and he could hardly breathe through the large pants he took with his covered mouth. Itching to remove his suffocating mask, he clawed at his neck as if it was trapped by a metal collar restricting the expansion of his throat as he breathed in oxygen but did not process it.

He was a lump of coal sputtered by flames, a single ember sparking without air to fuel its fire. His lungs shuttered between breaths and he clawed at the arm on his back, pulling himself to face that _red, red, red,_ blob and squeeze it close through his distress.

"In…Out…," the voice continued and some distant part of him homed in on that – said man, hands, death, fear – tensed tighter as he spoke with honeyed words and false diatribes.

(Shame is all he feels as Skip softens him with sweet lies and make-believe friendships lined with cruelty.)

"In…Out…," the voice mocked and he screamed silently from his broken heart as if an open mouth and unhinged jaw meant the words would suddenly flow forward unimpeded from his chest.

(Skip is a flower crown of deception, made of jagged thorns thrusting sharply in Peter's tender skin as roses decorate its perimeter with pretty petals of dishonesty.)

There was a hole in his sternum, a fist with icy cold fingers reaching for his lungs. His ribcage splayed around the intrusion, poking and prodding at it with each sharp inhale of breath.

How could he breathe for this stranger, this man with sweetened breath and sickly, soothing words that didn't mean what they were supposed to? How could he breathe around the ice in his soul?

"In…," the man started, and then silence, sweet and blessed as the city honked like angry geese in that strangely pleasant cacophony of noise it always produced.

Peter waited for the man to keep going (to keep lying through his teeth rotted black by dishonesty) but, besides the physical proof of him underneath Peter's hands, all evidence of the man was otherwise absent. There was no breath to follow and no words to listen to and Peter slowly unclenched his grip on the man's forearms.

His own sniffles marred the air beside the noise pollution as his clarity returned slowly, his chest still struggling to expand with every inhalation of the dirty city's fumes. Blinking against the flickering images in his view, he turned his eyes upward as his heartbeat slowed its' thump in his chest.

And there, sitting in _red, red, red _– Uncle Ben's blood was so _red, red, red _like a ruby glistening and sleek with polish – was Daredevil.

(Everything is _red, red, red,_ and he_ can't breathe it's in his throat and mouth and it's filling up his nostrils. He can taste it on his tongue as he drowns in it and even his tears are red, red, red._

Everything is_ red, red, red,_ and he's choking on it all.)

Hitching his breath in a slight panic, he exhaled slowly to calm himself against the outfit's dark and gruesome coloring. After a few seconds of silent rest, he went slack and let himself fall back onto the building's roof.

"You doing better, kid?" Daredevil asked in a low growl, and Peter tensed once more under his hand.

"I'm not a kid," he mumbled to avoid the question (his mind resounding 'I'll never be better'), "I'm Spider-Man."

"Spider-Man?" the man asked, and Peter bristled.

Just because he had a panic attack didn't mean he was some kind of cosplayer hanging out on top of buildings to be edgy.

"Yeah," he bit back, "Spider-Man."

"Hmm, alright. So, what got you so worked up, Spider-Man?" he asked casually.

(But it's never casual. No, it is always leaking with sinister intent and is as slick as an oil spill on top of the bitter water of the sea.)

"Just a bad night," he gritted out.

"Seemed pretty bad for just that," Daredevil remarked, still blithe and carefree.

"Look, thanks for the help, but I should be leaving now," Peter stumbled to his feet, "stranger danger and all that."

"Stark led a kid into battle?" he asked suddenly.

Peter paused at the change, barely remembering to object with a weak, "I'm not a kid."

Looking back to Daredevil showed that the man was not convinced.

"Did you even know what you were fighting for?" he questioned softly.

"You know, right now I don't really care," he responded, words short and clipped as he stood straighter and prepared to leave.

"There's something wrong with you," Daredevil grumbled (and all Matt could smell beyond the blood was _stress and fear and pain and sex._)

"Nothing's wrong with me," Peter responded tersely, his voice as biting as the cool wind of winter spreading frostbite to the core.

('The man is just trying things to get you to stay,' his mind whispers darkly, 'he's using you, trying to see what will poke your buttons before he'll pounce and suckle on your flesh like it is fine wine under his fangs.')

"It doesn't take a genius to spot that you're lying," he said.

"Yeah, so? What's it to you?" Peter barked back, "you can't just come up here and pretend to care just because you think you're some sort of hero. I don't know you, you don't know me, why should you care?"

Daredevil paused, tilting his head like a dog as he thought.

"Because, even if you weren't Spider-Man, even if I had no idea who you were, you still matter. Your life and well-being would matter just as much as mine no matter who you were."

Peter faltered a little, turning away from the edge of the rooftop to stare at the man.

"You don't really mean that. People don't value everyone indiscriminately," Peter said, a questioning tone to his words.

"No, they don't," Daredevil allowed, "but people can recognize that someone's life is just as important as the next no matter how much they value one above the other."

"And what about murderers," Peter asked, not willing to touch on who he really meant yet.

(And what about rapists? And what about child molesters? And what about…?

Where is the line between humanity and monstrosity? What would you allow and what wouldn't you? What treatment is deserved by the worst of the worst?)

"Well, I beat them up, don't I?" Daredevil quirked a small smile.

"But then their well-being doesn't matter to you as much as mine, does it? How do you know I'm not a murderer?"

(There's _red, red, red _on his hands and the dull thud of his Uncle's body falling to the ground resonates in his ears. He is screaming and all there is is _death and fear and hands._

How does Peter know that he, himself, isn't a murderer? How does Peter _know?_)

"Are you?" Daredevil asked amiably.

(His uncle rasps last words that cling to his subconscious like smoke, cloying and heavy, cohering to one's hair.)

"No, I don't think so."

"Then I don't think I need to – what do some people call it? – 'put the fear of hell in you'," Daredevil paused, taking a deep breath as if to gather his thoughts, "listen, kid. What I do isn't perfect, it might not even be right, but one thing I know is that some people deserve to be punished. Sometimes, our system fails us and that's when I take it into my own hands.

"Now, does that mean that I have the authority to say that the lives of those I beat up at night are worth less than the lives I care about or try to protect? No, I don't think so. I don't think anyone has that authority. But that doesn't mean I don't judge or think worse of others for their actions. I'm still human and we all have some sort of prejudice within us."

"So, you're saying that, on the basis of life or death, you would save everyone you could?" Peter asked.

"I'd try."

"What if it was someone else here tonight – someone you knew was bad was panicking and crying – what would you do?"

Daredevil hesitated, "I'm not sure. I think it would depend on the situation."

Peter nodded, leaning back on his haunches and gazing at Daredevil with a cocked head. Daredevil's suit let off a gossamer-like sheen under the city lights and his horns sparkled menacingly atop his forehead. Peter thought it looked more like a supervillain's suit than a hero's.

He angled his head back to look at the stars, grimacing at the dark and unblinking expanse of the sky.

"Do you ever –" Peter faltered a little, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, "do you ever feel alone in the world? Like nothing you do really matters?"

('Like _you _don't matter' hung unspoken in the air between them.)

"Sometimes," Daredevil acquiesced, "but then I remember everyone who cares about me, everyone who keeps coming back no matter how much I push them away and I know that I won't ever be alone no matter how much I feel that I am."

"And what if they don't come back?"

(What if they leave? What if they don't care enough about Peter to want to deal with this broken and empty shell of himself?

What if they couldn't care less about what he was going through? What if they didn't want him anymore?

What if their bodies thumped cold and heavy on the concrete as Peter watched on and scrabbled helplessly towards their broken bodies too late – _too late, too late, too late_ – too late to save them?)

"Then they never cared in the first place, but that doesn't mean that nobody will care. Somebody out there will always care about you, Spider-Man."

Peter jolted at his moniker, a little startled that he forgot his identity was anonymous to this man sitting beside him. Not that he would trust him with his name.

(Skip was trusted for his candied words and sweetened speech, and that trust was as easily shattered as butterscotch underneath a wooden spoon.)

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Because you wouldn't be here if you were all alone. You wouldn't have put on that suit or tried to help if you had never had anyone to care for you," Daredevil said, shrugging a little as he put his weight on his hands and leaned into them.

"That seems awfully cynical," Peter remarked.

"Maybe," Daredevil allowed, "but, without at least one person to care about you, no matter how small, no one would ever learn humanity."

"I – I guess that makes sense," Peter mumbled.

They fell into a silence, and Peter gazed at Queens, noticing his proximity to the river between Hell's Kitchen and Queens.

"What made you come all the way to Astoria?" Peter asked, "crossing the river seems awfully extravagant for a guy who makes it his goal to help out solely Hell's Kitchen."

Daredevil hummed, "I heard some things that made me think I should come over here tonight. Seems like it wasn't such a bad idea after all."

Peter nodded in acquiescence and they fell into a comfortable hush once more. He laid forward onto his stomach on the concrete of the roof before flipping onto his back to gaze at the waxing moon glowing like a beacon in the sky.

"Do you consider yourself safe at home?" Daredevil asked suddenly and Peter jolted from his relaxed position into a tightly coiled spring readying itself to launch.

"What makes you say that?" he spat out his words defensively.

Daredevil looked at him and, even through his mask, Peter could tell he was raising an eyebrow. Cursing himself for behaving suspiciously, he swung his head away to scowl at the distant skyline.

"Well, a lot of things," he remarked with something of a deadpan droll to his voice.

"Well, you can shove your – " Peter fumbled, his brain blanking out, "you know, I'm usually a lot better at comebacks."

"I've heard," Daredevil joked.

"Have you?" Peter asked, "because I don't remember ever seeing you when I'm out there making quips and fighting crime. Or are you just a really good stalker?"

"You're avoiding the question, but you don't have to answer if you don't want to. I think that might be redundant at this point."

"Yeah," Peter sighed, his arms flopping as he hung his head dejectedly in the night breeze, "I think it might."

Standing and reaching his limbs to the sky in a fluid stretch, Peter turned once more to Daredevil.

"You know, if you ever need any help, I'm here for you. Have you ever gotten any training?" Daredevil asked.

"Do YouTube videos count?" Peter inquired, quirking a smile underneath his mask.

"No, they don't," Daredevil said before mumbling, "damn, Stark. Who does he think he is?"

Peter frowned at the man, looking down at his suit before glaring at Daredevil.

"He's my mentor," he replied tersely.

"Pretty damn bad one if he doesn't teach you how to fight," Daredevil commented.

"And what, you'd be better?" Peter responded hotly.

"I'd like to think so. But look, kid, that's not the point. Just, I'm here for you, alright? And you don't need to hide from me or anyone else."

Peter eyed the man before agreeing reluctantly.

"Fine, but no bad-mouthing Mr. Stark."

"Now that I can't promise," he said with a smirk.

And Peter did _not _laugh as he swung away.

(He didn't. That was his mentor Daredevil was insulting, of _course _he didn't.)

* * *

Peter stayed out as long as possible.

(To avoid the _death and fear and hands_ that would greet him back at his apartment.)

But, his panic attack and subsequent talk with Daredevil took a lot of time out of his patrol.

(And he can't believe he didn't fanboy over Daredevil. It was _Daredevil_ for god's sake and he didn't even freak out!

He is so proud of himself.)

Peter crawled into his window holding his breath. Scanning the room, he sighed out in relief and closed the window gently behind him. Drawing the blinds shut, he peeled off his sweaty suit. After grabbing a pair of pajamas from his dresser, he snuck quickly and quietly into the bathroom and knelt next to the tub. Cold water sprung swiftly from the tap as he twisted the knob slightly to the left.

Plunging the suit under the stream he swallowed around his fear at the pink liquid staining the porcelain beneath it and scrubbed harshly against the fabric. After a few minutes of rinsing, the water ran clear and he filled the tub up with cold water and soap for it to soak overnight.

(He's not happy that he can keep it in the bath without worrying about Skip finding it, he's _not._

He's bitter. He is bitter and angry and scared and that's it.

_He's not happy._)

Changing into his pajamas, he padded softly to his room and closed the door behind him.

(He's not allowed to lock it anymore. There are rules, now, rules beyond 'don't tell'.)

Climbing into his bed he curled into his blanket and bit harshly at the fabric.

(There is a constant anxiety rushing through his veins and he just wants to _squeeze_ something until it breaks.)

Rolling onto his back he stared with blind eyes at the textured ceiling above his bed. City lights peeked into his room even through his blinds and he pretended they were starlight come from millions of light-years away just to reach him, just to caress him with their immensity.

The door clicked open, ringing out into the night. Footsteps and blue eyes like glaciers in a stormy sea. Death and fear and hands as he drowned in minutes and hours all at once.

(He is in the past and the present, he is in-between it all – floating through time like stardust in the endless atmosphere of the universe. He is traveling the expanse of time an unwilling passenger to its woes – a slave to its whim.)

He was felled by the sharp claws of the monster under his bed. He was just a little boy and all he saw was white and red – white hair glinting in the moonlight, the city lights.

Red blood shining under police lights, the streetlights.

Red and white all stained and bright against his eyes like a grisly photo film overlaid on the world.

There were sounds, grunts and whispers and words like cherry wine – bitter at the back of his throat as he choked on tongue and salt and blood and fear.

There were so many things as he traveled through time – a reluctant participant to humanity and all its horrors.

There were so many things as he laid on his bed, trying – always trying – to fall asleep.

(Not every breakdown is loud, like chaos brought to life. Some suffering is still and silent; lost minutes of sorrow without tell. There isn't always screaming or the hot rush of blood in one's ears.

Tears can form as sluggishly as crystals, daring to spill over but often drying before their time.

Not every break down is loud.)

Peter broke down to the silence. Peter broke down to the nothingness.

(At 16, Peter broke down into the soil, into the roots of the Earth – a seedling swallowed by dirt before he had the chance to grow, to reach his limbs outwards to the stars.)


	11. The Depth of Whirlpools

**Chapter Summary:**This world is but a quarter of a teaspoon of the universe and yet there's so much to unpick. Knowledge skims the surface and wisdom fills the seas. To sink deeper than that is to drown.

* * *

_The scars the stars leave can be invisible_

_As subtle as a shift in the wind_

_We can break from the pressure_

_We can feel it boil under our skin_

* * *

There is a time in everyone's life where you will have to stare down the flashing headlights of an incoming train and you will realize that you have two choices;

Stand still and brace for impact.

Or move aside and let it pass you by.

Peter was at that time

* * *

Peter stared down the eye of a storm and felt guilty.

Peter felt guilty down to the spongy marrow of his bones. But no, it wasn't the guilt of having it – _fear, death, hands_ – happen. Peter felt guilty for wanting to get Skip in trouble. It was strange that he felt so guilty, but he supposed it was probably because he couldn't separate the bad from the good.

He thought that might have been the worst part: that not all of it was bad. He remembered the tinkling laughter of best friends. He remembered the sun igniting the sky with a blaze that covered games of make-believe in a fantastical array of star beams that flickered across youthful faces like a hungry flame.

He remembered how, even during the worst of it all, Skip was nice. And how was he supposed to hate the person who covered his scraped knees with bandages and swept him off his feet into the mystical worlds of cinema and high school chemistry? How was he supposed to look at his first friend and feel hate?

Sometimes, he made excuses for Skip. He would play it off like it was somehow his fault as a way to cope with the inaction he perpetuated. Sometimes, he pretended that it wasn't worth it, that it wasn't important enough to address.

(But it is a heavy stench at the back of his throat rotting his teeth into yellow stumps. It is permeating his mouth with a vicious and raw pain that throbs deep within his jaw. The unspoken words are sharp and stabbing at his tongue which drips blood from bitten lips.

The red stains on his chin speak of horror but nobody seems to see. His eyes are cracked glass orbs spilling piercing crystal. His tears carve craters down his cheeks that others seem to mistake for laugh lines.

He wonders how they don't hear how unhinged his laughs sound.)

Peter felt guilty because he was standing in Hell's Kitchen with torn jeans and scraped knees –

(No, don't think about it. There's nothing to think about, _he's fine_ –)

Peter was at a crossroads;

To ask for help, to scream to the heavens and wish for a miracle.

Or walk home and burst from the trauma overloading his heart.

…

Peter yelled.

* * *

6 hours earlier - 7:15 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time

Mr. Stark had sighed a countless amount of times since Peter had entered the lab. Eyes constantly darting to the side to observe Peter, he seemed to be contemplating whether or not to say something.

Peter, on the other hand, was shifting nervously in his seat under the scrutiny. Twiddling with the cap of his pen, he tried to focus on the equation in front of him rather than the eyes boring into his profile.

(There's nothing wrong, _leave him alone. He's drowning, stop looking at him._)

The room felt overcrowded and the walls reached out like grasping hands to choke him with their closeness. His spine was a steel rod straightening his back and his eyes misted with anxious tears.

(Don't cry, _don't cry_. Tears mean you're alive, _and he's not._ He's an imposter in human skin – a skeletal reflection of humanity and what it's meant to be.)

"What?" Peter asked voice clipped with stress-induced irritation.

Tony jolted and side-eyed him once more with – was that suspicion?

No. It was concern.

He swiveled to face Peter and Peter might've laughed at the constipated look on his face if he hadn't felt so anxious and drained at the same time.

"What what?" Tony joked.

Peter pinned him with an icy glare.

"Sorry," Tony relented, barking a little laugh before sobering, "I just wanted to ask if you were okay. Your reports from Karen say you've lost a lot of weight?"

The invasion of privacy, though not unexpected, made violation throb deep inside his chest. That, paired along with the implication that Mr. Stark couldn't notice his steady degradation without the aid of his technology made Peter scrunch his face in anguish.

(Mr. Stark didn't care enough to see on his own because Peter wasn't human.

He's just a _tool._)

"M'fine," he spat, turning his head and body away from Mr. Stark to hide his angrily furrowed brow.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Mr. Stark raise his hands placatingly. A heavy frown marred his face and he seemed to examine Peter consideringly.

"Wow, kid, what's got you into such a mood?" Mr. Stark teased lightly, though his tone betrayed his concern.

"Nothing, but you might just be," he retorted, regretting his words but unable to bring himself to apologize at the sight of hurt in Tony's eyes.

"I don't need you to hold my hand," he continued stubbornly, "I did this before you came into my life – I'm not a kid. I don't need your help!"

Mr. Stark looked startled and upset as his outburst and he swiveled as if to try to get Peter to meet his eye but Peter stared mulishly at the ink in front of his face.

"I never said you were," Mr. Stark mollified warily.

Peter bit his lip and scowled at the paper, trying futilely to block out the conversation and for Tony to leave it be. Instead, Mr. Stark seemed to sag at the reaction and changed his approach entirely.

"Look, I've got issues, kid, I'm not gonna argue that, but that doesn't mean I don't care about you. I try my best but I'm still human," Tony said solemnly, "I've messed up a bunch with you, I know that, but I don't want you to think you can't come to me with your problems."

Peter snorted derisively, knowing he was taking out his tightly bridled anger on Mr. Stark just because he was covering up his fear. His anger was a force of nature, a hurricane brewing beneath his chest and caged by the shortness of his anxious breaths. His ribs were a prison for rainfall and lightning to clash in a dangerous dance which riled the bile of his stomach to rise up his throat and coat the back of his mouth with acid.

He had been able to hold his tongue, to spew his vitriol within the dark corners of his mind, but a target had arisen and his self-control wasn't enough to hold his venomous words behind clenched teeth or swallow like a bitter pill.

"Yeah, sure," he muttered sourly and Peter tried to ignore the stab of guilt in his chest when Mr. Stark looked as if he had crushed his heart beneath his palms.

"Alright, well, moody teenagers are definitely not what I signed up for," he said and Peter knew at this point that Tony was the kind of person to cover up his hurts with asshole remarks and scathing misdirection.

But Peter wasn't really in the mood to care.

"What _did _you sign up for?" Peter questioned harshly, finally looking up to meet his mentor's gaze.

Mr. Stark's eyes widened at the sight and Peter wondered what he saw. His eyes had to be red and broken and his face felt gaunt like the stretch of sallow skin on a decomposing corpse even without looking at a mirror.

A vicious stab of pleasure pierced his heart at the sight of guilty worry on Tony's face and he tried to press it down. He shouldn't have been feeling glad that Mr. Stark was worried or upset.

(He shouldn't, but he did.

You see, there were two feelings that persistently followed him, nipping at his heels and impatiently asking for acknowledgment. On one hand, he wished for silence, to hide in shadows with his head stuck in the sand ignoring all that might hurt him as well as any way to escape from that which already was. And, on the other, he wished to waltz into the sunshine with his vocal cords booming his pleas to the masses.

It is not so simple as guilt and self-blame. It is a grapple with all the desires that could be but seem so impossible to those who wish them.)

"I didn't sign up for anything," Mr. Stark said reflexively, wincing a little at Peter's angry glower.

"Yeah, and I never asked you to!" Peter yelled, standing up from the sudden burst of rage (and sharp hurt) he felt.

Blinking his eyes in shock at his own reaction, he stepped back and gave a lost look to Tony.

"I-I'm sorry. I don't know what's happening to me," he blurted, hurriedly moving to pack his bag.

His papers crumpled under his manic hands and the ink of cheap gel pens smeared like bloodstains on his fingertips. Haphazardly putting the items into his threadbare and fraying backpack, he fumbled to zip it up as anxiety made his stomach turn.

"I-I'll just go," he whispered furiously and shut his mouth to prevent much more from coming out.

Mr. Stark looked panicked now and stood up straighter before speaking frantically.

"What's wrong Peter?" he asked hastily, his eyes startled and uncertain.

But Peter's hands shook like leaves on a gentle Autumn breeze and he was only the accumulation of all of his fears at that moment. No matter how much he wished for comfort or kindness, his skin burned at the thought of human interaction.

Tony was too close even a meter away, and Peter was like a polarized magnet stuck in repulsion with the world – pulling, always pulling away.

Mr. Stark reached out to grab at his wrist (no, stop! _Don't hurt me!_) to try to keep him from leaving and Peter flinched away, jostling his sleeve up to reveal his arm. It was as thin and brittle as a twig and discolored with sickly yellow bruises.

Peter looked to him in horror as bile rose and washed the back of his throat like mouthwash. Eyes like a stained-glass mirror shattered with the explosion of the revelation and, within seconds, Peter was gone.

(Tony Stark is left in a desperate struggle to find out how to fix a problem that has no instruction manual.)

* * *

Peter crumbled under the weight of his apathy. Shifting and stumbling on shaky feet he wobbled through his patrol and tried to ignore the distinct lack of Karen's voice soothing his ears.

(He had rushed to an alley-way and crushed the internal hardwiring of the suit as soon as he could. Not one of his better decisions but, if he could be Spider-Man without the A.I. before Iron Man came into his life, he could do it again.

Even when he had to face Mr. Stark in the next 48 hours – because he would, he knew that – it somehow felt worth it for the time being.)

Facing off against nameless faces and foes, he swung his arm carelessly and without force against his opponents and accepted retaliation without much of a fight. He wrote his notes to the cops lethargically and sloppily as if the weight of the pen between his fingers was that of the sky under Atlas' back.

Robotically comforting the victims of the crimes he intervened in, he tried not to notice the way his voice slurred with depression. It sounded like he was muffled by blankets.

(Though it wasn't as if that wasn't accurate – he felt as if he was drowning. Why not sound like it too?)

He had dreams, sometimes – nightmares, not dreams – dreams in which he was the enemy, the blade that struck down unsuspecting innocents instead of saving them. He dreamed of war drums and cold-blooded murder and no one to notice as his masked face hid all of his crimes.

(He wondered, sometimes, if the mask meant he was a coward or if it was a sign that what he was doing was wrong – shameful.

What is a mask but a ragged swath of shawl to cover up one's sin?)

Peter followed the curve of a raindrop floating haphazardly on the unpredictable glide of the wind – undirected and entirely dependent on forces outside of his control. He splashed upon the concrete, puddling onto the crowded sidewalks like a trickle of fresh water joining a pool.

His ears rung with the echoes of sirens and he flinched away from shoulders until he seemed to be lost inside the hoody he threw on after changing out of his suit. Swallowed by shadows, he was barely spared a glance as he woodenly dodged the sharp elbows of his fellow commuters.

Deciding that his apartment didn't sound all that bad even with the threat of confrontation, he trudged home on unsteady feet.

Crossing the street without turning his head, he maneuvered through cars parked in traffic until he was left to gaze up at the large expanse of his apartment complex. He took a shaky breath in for courage before trudging forward and stepping inside the building.

The warm air alighted upon his skin like a match and he shivered at the coldness in his limbs that he hadn't noticed until faced with the sharp contrast of temperature. Lips numb and chapped, he rubbed his frozen palms to his nose and winced at the burn in his nostrils from the chill.

Noting that Aunt May would probably be home, he hurried to the elevator to face the meeting that he had been so steadfastly avoiding.

(Walking home takes so much longer than crawling in through a window, but the break eased a little chip of ice off his heart. It felt freeing, sometimes, to walk on the ground and not fly through the air. He could pretend he was normal with it – could pretend that his legs burned from the long walk rather than the extensive vigilantism that labored his muscles and pumped raging rivers of blood through his veins to thrum like an earthquake in his ears.)

It was awkward, sometimes, how obviously touch averse he was. The elevator, though not overly crowded, was filled with two other occupants and he, though the one to press the button in the first place, opted for the stairs.

It wasn't like it was an inconvenience to him or his monstrous athleticism, but it said something about his mental state that he couldn't handle two strangers close to him for even the extent of an elevator ride.

He hopped up the steps torpidly and tried not to crush the staircase railing beneath his palm.

(It would twist and scream like a tortured soul writhing under his ministrations, but he would only squeeze out the protests impassively.)

The landing of the stairs to his floor seemed so glaringly similar to the one before that he had to check the number beside the door to make sure it was his – a sign of his inattentiveness as he could usually tell by counting the floors subconsciously as he passed them by.

Once he had affirmed he was on the right floor, he leaned his side into the push bar to open it rather than expend the energy to use his hands. Walking the length of the hallway made him feel like he was walking to his death but he plodded on, even if it was at a snail's pace.

Reaching his door, he stood for what felt like hours staring at the expanse of wood. Carving divots into the frame with his eyes, he waited as if he was expecting it to open under the force of his stare. His mind, so frequently fraught with thoughts and rambling ideas, had halted as if stopped by the mere presence of home.

(A home that isn't home.)

Scraping his key into the doorknob with a wobbly fist, he pushed it open warily and breathed a sigh of relief at the open living room. The sound of a running shower filled his ears and his heart clenched in discomfort when he realized that he was so preoccupied with his thoughts (or lack of) that he couldn't hear the shower from outside of the door.

Walking to his bathroom, he paused at the note on the counter.

_'Out with friends, I'll be home late - Skip,' _was scrawled messily on a piece of paper ripped unevenly from a notepad.

Peter couldn't bring himself to smile.

Shaking his head and closing his eyes against the inexplicable sadness the emptiness of the apartment brought him, he walked blindly into the bathroom, flinging his bag into his opened bedroom on the way.

Fingers tightly grasped upon the sink, his teeth clenched as crumbs of porcelain gathered under his nails. He looked into the mirror and felt a little older – a little bit colder. His face was a blank slate crumbling at the edges. His eyes were dulled and tired and grief beyond his age swam in the once warm whiskey orbs.

Skin stretched across his cheekbones like leather on a tanning stand. His hair flopped on his forehead in greasy clumps and he blinked dully at his reflection.

His heart beat an unsteady rhythm in his chest. Thumping like the carcass of an animal slaughtered by carefully steady hands, his heart was an ever-constant reminder of the pitch-black shadows of the world.

Suddenly, the violent urge to destroy tore through his being and he sobbed harshly. Curling into himself, he scrabbled at his side in a mockery of a hug like his own false comfort could really cure his heartache. Grasping at his rib cage like fingers on piano keys, he played a melody with his bitterness and pulled on his bones like handles that could open to a place that might be better.

Heaving with the force of discomfort in his skin, he clenched his fists and punched the air at his sides. He noted, distantly, that no matter how hard he squeezed his hands, he couldn't break the nothingness hiding in the cracks of his palms.

Jabbing his fist forward, glass shattered under his knuckles and gathered in his skin like trees rooted deep within the ground. The tips reached towards the heavens in ragged and bloody peaks. Distantly aware of the destruction, he observed the broken pieces pooling in the sink and cluttering the tile floor mutely.

Cracks lined the mirror from where he had punched it but it was hard to dredge up any emotion towards them.

Hurried footsteps thudded towards the bathroom but he did not move from his position. Still staring at the mockery of diamond rings imbedded in his fingers, he saw bare feet halt at the edge bordering the bathroom floor from the hardwood of the living room.

Aunt May took one look at the destroyed frame and asked him, "Why? What was the reason?"

(What was the reason? There were so many reasons.)

There was a resigned air to it all. Face lined with disappointment, she sighed as if she expected no less of him. But then, she examined him and softened slightly at his state.

(He wondered how bad he looked now, how purple the bruises under his eyes had to shine and how grey the skin clinging to his bony limbs had to be for her to finally see. To look and find evidence of the perdition he had found seemingly permanent residence in.)

"Are you alright?" May asked, voice loving and concerned, "you've been acting strange for a few weeks now and I'm starting to worry about you. You're all pale and you look like you've lost weight. You know you've got to eat more than other people, honey."

Peter nodded listlessly.

(He felt like a fiddle being plucked in all the wrong ways.

What could he do when his house was no longer a home but a dollhouse set up for play?)

But he hadn't looked up, so she sighed again – this time with more heartbreak than disapproval. Stepping carefully into the room, she gathered his hand within her own and he swallowed shakily. Her fingers laid carefully upon the edges of his palm and she leaned down a little as his eyes flicked to meet hers.

"Honey, what's wrong?" she asked softly, and Peter realized with a startling lucidity that tears as salty as the brine of a sea breeze were making their way down his face.

Glancing watery eyes up to his Aunt – his caretaker, his family, his _mom _in all the ways that mattered – he croaked brokenly, "I don't know anymore."

Though that was a lie because there were fingers melded on his wrists like stains of molten yellow wax and scars dug caverns under his eyes – big purple bruises from nightmarish dreams and horrible realities. His skin stretched the expanse of his soul, marred by cougar claws and the scathing burn of sunlight. His hair was an oil spill that leaked through his scalp and into his mind in toxic waves colored in twilight and the luminescent shine of death.

He was built from the husks of firecrackers burned out too quickly. Ash lined his tongue as he coughed up smoke, polluting the world with the secrets he kept.

(He knew, _of course_ he knew.)

"Oh, sweetie," she said sorrowfully, placing her hands on the side of his face and kissing his forehead as she dragged him towards her and out of the glass littered bathroom.

She held him close to her body as she led him to the couch but he didn't flinch or draw away. Instead, he put his face in the crook of her neck and cried as if he were a child seeking comfort.

(Is he still a child? What is the turning point between youth and adulthood?

Could he really be just a child?

Could a child face all of this alone?)

The love that sparked from her lips was like a warm campfire but it could so quickly turn into that of a raging inferno. She could burn down the forest of his soul with a single syllable because his own relied on her words for survival.

He hung onto her like a dying man grasping at a smoking log as if it could save him.

What a convoluted way of saying his dependence was irrational.

(But is it irrational when all you have known is the never-ending loss of those you hold dear to you? Is it irrational to cling tightly to the last bit of family you have?

Peter had always known of death. Just as he knew that the sun would rise tomorrow, he knew that, sooner or later, all that he ever loved would rot to dust.)

Clinging to the one he loved above all, he fell asleep to a lullaby.

* * *

Facing the world with a nighttime riddled gaze, he woke up warm and alone. Well, not quite alone.

Voices swirled softly on the air wafting like the scent of freshly baked cookies into the living room and Peter ached with sleep-induced nostalgia. Squirming out of the blanket and trying to dredge up the energy to lift his limbs, he yawned tiredly as he lazily faced his head to his wrist.

12:15 A.M. his watch blinked at him and he startled at the sight. He had forgotten to take off his watch! So much for being able to hide from Mr. Stark when that was on his wrist.

Shaking his head and rising to his feet, he stretched his arms upward even as his heart-rate skyrocketed in anxiety. His joints popped and creaked as he pulled his hands together. He cracked his neck to the side and tried not to wince at the loud sounds.

Padding softly to the entryway of the dining room, he peeked his head around the corner and tried not to cry out.

Mr. Stark's face peered out of the kitchen, glancing wary and livid eyes at the shuttered and calm face of Skip. Stumbling mid-step, Peter was hit with the sudden realization that he could not do this. Ripping the watch off of his wrist, he ran to his room and clawed at the window with frenetic hands. Even with super strength pulsing through his muscles it didn't seem to want to rise for his frantic fingers. They twitched uselessly against the pale wood and he could feel his breath shorten with panic.

The walls were stone weights lying on his chest and gathering pebbles in his stomach. They climbed like a cage around him that, for all his power, seemed impossible to escape.

(To clamber out of the chasm of his heart which has swallowed him whole.)

Finally finding purchase on the smooth grain, he slammed it upwards and did not even wince at the sharp snap of a fault line carving its way through the glass. Footsteps neared his bedroom and he shimmied through the gap without a glance behind.

Hearing yells of protest behind him, he jumped and landed with a painful jolt on his feet before falling to his knees. Jagged concrete tore through denim and embedded in his skin

Tripping over both his feet and strangers, he skidded into building corners and jostled his way through crowds of tourists and locals alike. He jumped around cars in flying leaps that Peter Parker very clearly shouldn't have been able to do.

(Because Peter Parker isn't Spider-Man. He's 9 and alone and oh, so scared of the world. Peter Parker runs from problems and cowers with his head between his knees. His fists clench and grasp at his ears to block out the anguished howls of the world.

Peter Parker isn't strong enough to face this burning star of a world, but Spider-Man should be. The question lies in if he actually can.)

He sprinted with his eyes clenched shut and let his instincts guide him through the flow of people as busy-bodied as a school of fish.

The world glimmered like spotlights on his closed lashes and rainbows swirled through the salty liquid in his eyes. Stumbling through his tears, he watched rivers form and converge within the space of a minute.

The world fluctuated and rippled like a dress billowing in the wind.

(Without looking, you might be able to trace the wrinkles into a solid shape as you dragged you your finger along the fabric. But, with eyes wide open and curious, the creases and folds will hide worlds between their seams.)

Faces lined the walls, the street corners, and malls and yet they all looked the same. The world was a haze of impressions rather than the harsh lines of reality.

(Blue and white and pale honey – a sweet summer serenade to lost innocence. Red and brown and whiskey – the crisp and sharp burn of alcohol behind his sternum settling like hot cocoa in his hollow belly.

They blur with a contingency, the possibility of mortality shines upon their dampened lips. Poison shines like lip gloss and they lick at it without fear. They pause in neutrality, polished blades of war set aside in apathy, yet killing all the same.

He sometimes remembered a time where the nights had numbers and the days had names. As it was, could barely remember something different from monotony.)

Rushing through traffic like a thread of water flowing against the current, he fleetingly thought that he might have looked like an anime character in a drama to an outsider's perspective.

The thought was quickly overridden by the swell of terror rising in roiling waves within his soul.

His heart was as wide as the world felt empty and it rattled with the sound of beans rolling in a rain-stick. Stopping briefly, he blankly gazed at the expanse of the Queensboro Bridge hanging like a willow branch reaching its fronds over the East River.

(To feel is a much more blessed thing than we give it credit for. Emotions and tears that batter like rain on a window are much more meaningful than the hollow thrum of depression that swallows one whole. It is a sinking ship without much impact on the surface of the sea for others to notice it.

It is a localized disaster.

Though tears may fall, Peter wished he felt some satisfaction from his dewy and swollen eyes. And yet, his tears only puddled lamely to join the ocean of his mind, leaving an astonishing lack of fulfillment.)

Pushing forward, he veered into the pedestrian lane. Strides long and sure, he paid no mind to the impressions of the other commuters as he ran faster than any normal human could accomplish.

After all, Hell's Kitchen was only five miles away.

(When Peter was 16-years-old, he ran towards help like the hounds of hell were snarling at his heels.)


	12. Halfway to Heaven

**Chapter Summary: **And, somehow, this feels like betrayal.

* * *

_His arms reach up to the evermore_

_A cedar growing and grasping for the skies_

_Branching outward, branching in_

_As time, itself, devised_

* * *

There was a swooping noise as the lithe body of Daredevil jumped gracefully from the roof of a building and onto the pavement beside Peter. His suit was scuffed and there was a shallow cut bleeding sluggishly on his jaw but he didn't seem to mind.

"I didn't know when I'd see you again," Daredevil remarked casually.

Eyes widening in shock, Peter gaped at the other man.

"We – we haven't met," Peter said, hoping Daredevil didn't somehow guess his identity.

"I've got good senses, Spidey. Don't worry about it," he soothed, shrugging his shoulders a little.

Peter rocked back onto his heels, hands stuffed into his pockets as he sniffed as if to smother his anxiety.

"Yeah, well, it's not like we shared numbers or anything. This is kind of the only way I _could _contact you," he said.

Daredevil barked a short laugh, sounding almost surprised, before crossing his arms and leaning against the jagged brick wall of the alleyway. Peter joined him, shuffling awkwardly to the wall to fold himself into a seated position on the ground.

"What brings you here?" Daredevil asked though Peter suspected he already knew – somewhat.

There was a large pause as Peter tried to gather the courage to say something, _anything_, that would help him or at least convey that something was wrong.

(Though screaming in the middle of the street for Hell's Kitchen's vigilante might have already clued the man into that.)

"I – " he started, halting to take a deep breath.

(The space between breaths sometimes makes him feel like he's drowning. As if a lack of oxygen for only a moment is the same as the rush of cool water filling one's lungs. As if choking on nothing can compare to a silent and futile scream for survival underneath the surface of a black and depthless sea.

Sometimes, though, he thinks it does compare rather nicely. If one thought that the horrible, anxious feeling of being short of breath was nice, that is.)

"It – it's hard to explain," Peter said, though it was very easy to explain.

(What was difficult was the act of actually saying it.)

Daredevil hummed in acquiescence.

"Well, I can't say I have all night, but I can wait as long as it takes for me to hear something criminal going on," he told Peter, not unkindly.

"Sorry," Peter muttered reflexively, "sorry, I just – "

He made a strange breathless noise through his nose as if he was laughing without actually making a sound. His shoulders shook as he curled his face towards his hand. The burn of a serrated and sharpened knife scraping at the lining of his throat made him cough wetly into his hands.

"I – I just can't say it," he said, biting his lip in distress.

"What can you say?" Daredevil asked patiently and, after a pause to consider his words, Peter tasted triumph on his tongue.

(He could do that. He could speak indiscriminate words that tied together like string tangling on a spool. He could say things that meant nothing and everything at the same time. He could say things that knotted meaning into the framework of his soul.

He had words, no matter how vacant.)

He choked it out, his eyes pleading for _something_ – he just didn't know what. "When I was 9," he rasped, his voice more a grating sob than coherent words, "I had a baby sitter.

"He came back and it – I don't know what to do anymore," he said, his words cold on his lips as he spoke

They collected in the air like snowflakes gleaming in the light of the city. Dangling from his mouth, icicles twisted like daggers off his tongue.

His nails scratched at his scalp as he rocked forward onto his toes. He sniffled and laughed, smiling with bitterness so fierce it tore cracks of age into his face until he looked ancient with all the resentment he harbored.

(He sits there with scars in his mind, his body, his life and wonders if they notice. Do you think they'll see what has happened to bring him here today?

Sitting - closed legs, closed eyes, closed corner of a mind - in the starlight of the far-off sun like he has stopped for prayer. He is in reverie, a question mark on all tongues.

What has happened to him? Who is he and why?

He wants to ask. He wants to be asked.

He wants to understand and be understood in equal measures. He wants to notice the unspoken malice hiding in words that slowly chip craters into skin. He wants to say what he means without saying anything at all. He wants to know the truth behind drunken insults and the meaning of a stranger's smile curving like a flower petal off their face.)

"I – I'm breaking apart. And it, it feels like the world is burning and I'm stuck behind; frozen," Peter whispered slowly, eyes unfocused and lost, "left to deal with things I can't control. The only thing that feels real, feels _important_ about me, is Spider-Man. Helping people, it's, the only thing I'm living for anymore."

"You can't help others if you break yourself apart," Daredevil counseled, his voice soft and slow like a lullaby that purred out from deep within his chest, "it will only lead you to ruin."

Peter paused, looking up to the sky. His view was blocked by fire escapes and the crisscross of powerlines winding through the air. He clutched a hand to his chest and felt his heart pound like a marching band stomping against the fragile skin of his ribcage. His pulse fluttered like the wings of a butterfly jumping erratically underneath his skin.

"What," he started, his torso swelling with air as he took a deep breath to gather himself, "what if I want to fall apart? To 'ruin' myself?"

A long silence fell as Daredevil paused to assemble his thoughts. It made Peter's palms sweat and he rubbed them nervously on the denim of his jeans.

(There was a shipwreck in his heart. Feeding sharks lazily circled it looking for prey in the jagged wreckage of his love.

He was already a ruin. He just hadn't quite acknowledged how that brokenness might affect him.

He just hadn't acknowledged that his mind had more room to decay.)

"I can only hope you don't," Daredevil eventually said, face solemn, "for your sake, and this city's.

"You do a lot of good, kid. You don't deserve anything less than to thrive. You deserve more than whatever's happening to you. You can take back control of your life. I know you can."

"But what if – what if I can't? What if there's something preventing me from ever being happy? Being – being _real_?" Peter asked desperately, his hands shaking his knees as he squeezed them underneath his trembling fingers.

"What would that be?" Daredevil asked, sliding down to join him on the ground, "you seem real enough to me."

Peter laughed bitterly, "But does that matter to _me_? Does it mean anything if you find my existence meaningful when I watch the world go by without feeling _anything_?"

"I think it matters. Frankly, I think you matter more than you're giving yourself credit for."

"Well, I think – I think that, it's one thing to be seen and another to be known. Me, I'm just seen. But Spider-Man, _he's_ known. He's real and tangible and people – people can _feel_ the impact he has. Me? I'm just another kid from Queens. I'm not – I'm not _important_. My existence in and of itself is just an inconvenience. Everything about me is, it's just inconvenient."

"Yeah?" Daredevil asked, "what's your name?"

"Peter, Peter Parker," he responded, face turned to his lap.

"What do you like to do for fun? Besides being Spider-Man," he added when Peter opened his mouth to respond.

"Well, I," Peter said, frowning a little, "I guess I like to take pictures and I'm pretty good at chemistry.

Mr. Stark says I'm good at tech too, but I think he's just being nice."

Humming, Daredevil pulled out one of his Billy Club's and tapped it softly against the asphalt. He flipped it in his palm before smacking the flat side against the ground and holding it there, perpendicular to the tarmac.

"Have you ever made anything cool?" Daredevil asked, seeming genuinely interested.

"I made my webs from scratch," Peter said cautiously before quirking a small smile, "that's pretty cool."

"So, they don't come from your wrist? Guess everyone was wrong on that one," Daredevil commented, smiling serenely.

"They – what?!" Peter asked, horrified, "People thought it came from my wrists?!"

"Yeah," Daredevil replied, amused, "there are whole debates on your powers and what they entail."

"Huh," Peter said, face slack with disbelief, "that's slightly mortifying."

"Some people think I'm the literal devil so don't get too worried about it," he consoled, rocking his club slightly in his hands, "I'm sure one day people will know the truth."

"Yeah," Peter said as he sighed, face turning melancholy with indecision, "one day."

"That day doesn't have to be today, kid. But," Daredevil grimaced, leaning his head back against the brick, "it needs to be soon."

"Why is that?" Peter asked with a furrowed brow, swiveling his head to glance at Daredevil.

The visible parts of the man's face looked as though they were carved from stone. His expressions grated together into a granite silhouette that shined like rubies in the night lights. Determination dripped from his profile like a river carving its' way through the Earth – a constant and unchanging force cascading forward to reach its' goal.

"Because," Daredevil said, his voice almost dark in its deep tenor and it made Peter shiver a little as an instinctual cold dread swept down his spine.

(Skip's voice was like honeyed liquor, so rich you could inebriate yourself from the drawled syllables alone.)

"If you don't do something, I'll do it for you," he finished gravely.

Peter's heart stopped in his chest. Gawking with wide and wary eyes, he watched Daredevil rise fluidly from the ground. The words weren't necessarily bad, but they were ominous and final – spoken like a promise but he didn't know what it entailed.

(What is a promise to him but the certainty of pain? How many times have things been set in stone that meant something good for him?)

"You're not an inconvenience," Daredevil said, words fiercely vehement, "You deserve happiness just as much as the rest of us.

"Put your number in there and don't hesitate to call for help or even to learn how to throw a proper punch," he said as he tossed a blocky phone to Peter.

He fumbled with it for a second before gripping it tightly to his chest with sticky hands. Looking at the screen, he saw it open to a new contacts page. He quickly typed in his info with unsteady thumbs.

Unsurely passing it back to the man, he watched in slight astonishment as Daredevil took it from Peter's palm without even looking behind himself to see what to grab.

"Stay good, kid," the man said as he turned his head to the side with a smirk, "duty calls."

Flicking Peter a flimsy two-fingered salute, he scaled the building with predatory grace.

Peter slumped a little where he was sitting. His body thudded harshly against the wall. Wincing as his spine hit the angry bumps of clay poking out of the bricks, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the feeling of aimlessness swirling like an angry hoard of bees underneath his skin. He clenched his fist in a quick motion and imagined the swoosh of air was the sound of ceramic breaking between his knuckles.

His skin felt itchy as if it was just patches of a burned soul. Clawing at his forearm, he examined his blunt fingernails as they carved thick, white lines that quickly turned pink with irritation. He squashed his fingertip against the ground and watched idly as his skin turned pale with bloodlessness.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he asked to the sky as a growl of thunder resounded through the city.

After a moment of staring at the gathering clouds and waiting for rain, he answered himself.

He had a few people to talk to.

(When the end of the world finds your feet, step back a little. Watch the world go by from a safe and secluded marble balcony.

After all, it's easier to ignore disaster when you're comfortable.)

* * *

They say anger stemmed from the liver. It roiled in the organ and spread like a disease through your tissues until your body burned from it.

(And people would come from miles away just to see someone burn out; like moths drawn to a flame, people have a certain tendency towards things set ablaze.

Like a cigarette stub crushed into an ashtray, people have a proclivity for self-destruction.)

Peter was angry like a pack of wild boars stampeding through a forest undergrowth, but he didn't think it came from the sea of hatred winding through his veins.

(Who for? Himself or Skip? Who does he hate?)

He was angry at the world even though it showed no ill intent. Only people could be so cruel as to carve darkness into the Earth, but it was so much easier to hate a concept rather than an individual. How much easier was it to dislike a person from afar than from up close?

(Have you ever looked to those who are your flesh and blood and tried to dredge up hate for them? Have you ever tried to hate that which you once loved?

It is so much harder to forgive the sins of those who are distant to us – those who spiral on the edge of our awareness.)

There was a gloomy mass writhing within him, rearing its' head and growling for acknowledgment. The world burned a blistering blue and hung around his neck like a collar. His shoulders ached with the weight of it and he stumbled under his own expectations.

When one's only thoughts were lined with paranoia and anxiety, the muscles would tighten from the constant stress and the nervous system would overload from the strain. In short, relentless anxiety left untreated would lead to greater issues and, eventually, an explosion.

In his case, his 'explosion' was that he wanted to somehow throw the world into the deepest pits of hell and walk away as if that would solve his problems. He wanted to toss the Earth into the trash as if it was a common piece of litter.

He wanted to run away from the life he had given no consent to join.

But there were moments in life where the only way you can move forward is by convincing yourself that you _have_ to do something.

(You _have_ to do this for your mom, dad, sibling, grandparent, aunt, uncle, mentor, guardian, etc. etc.

You have to do this even though nothing is truly required of you. The consequences of inaction all stem from other people and their reactions to you. Maybe that's why Peter hated people so much: the only reason you _had_ to do certain things was for them – unless you wanted to end up in a jail cell for not paying your taxes or if you didn't tend to your basic bodily requirements, which would affect you greatly if you happened to neglect them.)

If he looked up he could see rock bottom.

(He thinks he has a right to be angry about that.)

He closed his eyes and curled up against the wall. He didn't want to move and he had at least a few hours before the sun rose. Laying on his back, he pushed up his hood so his hair wouldn't touch the asphalt. Fists curled tightly, he pounded them on the ground beside his hips in frustration.

"What do I do?" he pleaded to the sky before turning to his side. He cushioned his head on his arms and clamped his eyes shut.

'I really don't want to do it,' he thought. There was a lot he had to do, after all. Talking took so much energy.

'I'll do it in the morning,' he promised himself before drifting into a half-asleep state.

* * *

Waking up to the sound of a car horn, he pushed off from the ground in a swift and furious movement. Dawn was approaching like a grey smear of paint on the horizon. The air was wet with humidity and a misty wind whistled down the alleyway.

Pushing his hood up and hunching his shoulders, he paced toward the street and joined the small number of people walking the sidewalks. He tapped his fist nervously against his thigh as his eyes glazed with thought.

He stared at the ground and stumbled through the crowd with only his reflexes and senses to guide him. Mr. Stark was going to be angry with worry and Aunt May would be frantic.

Skip would be smug with success, his bags packed for moving out and triumph lining his face like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

He didn't know how he was going to face them. He didn't know how he was going to say the words he needed to.

(There was a monster in human bindings hunched in his home as if he was a friend. His words – confessions of silver and shadows and bare skin – had been clogged by talons wrapped around his throat. He had been sucked dry by a fiend with sharpened teeth – his bones hollowed and echoing with only faint impressions of normality as there had been a time when he could not write his traumas in a list as if they were personality traits.)

An itch of un-scratchable stress crawled up his spine and he twitched in discomfort until his muscles were taut like bowstrings drawn for the hunt.

(The arrow points somewhere foreign, but will its path travel outwards or in? Will his own stress turn against him or will it exit in some magnificent breath as if it was smoke whisking away on the breeze?)

Twisting his arms and rolling his shoulders, he huffed in frustration. So much for 'doing it in the morning' when once he woke up he was already trying to find ways to procrastinate. Mainly by going to the local coffee shop that seemed to be whispering invitations at him.

('Buy something both obscenely sweet and expensive, Peter. 6 dollars isn't too much for a latte, Peter. You can totally afford it with your non-existent paycheck, Peter,' the shop whispered and he shook his head even as he stuffed his hand in his pocket to check for spare cash.

'…we have brownies,' it said, and he groaned in defeat as he pulled out the 8 dollars and 29 cents that had been hiding in his jeans for emergency milk runs.)

"Okay, that's it," he muttered to himself, "I can't handle money and no one should ever expect anything less than financial failure from me."

Him considering if he should get a job at the Daily Bugle to help out with rent didn't mean that he was completely immune from teenage impulsivity, after all. Plus, some part of him was trying to spin this as good. As if him suddenly being able to eat or even just desire a pastry meant that his diet was improving.

(It probably just meant that his blood sugar was low.)

Sighing, he trudged to the opposite side of the street with a brief glance to make sure it was clear. He rubbed at his eyes and cringed at the crust that crinkled around his eyelid. Swiping away the sleep until he felt he was decently presentable, he raised himself to his full height as he reached the outside of the shop. He looked distastefully at his reflection glaring at himself from the glass window of the shop. If anything, he looked a little worse than the night before, even if he seemed less distressed.

His hair cascaded onto his forehead in waves of matted chestnut. The locks curled above his tired eyes like coils of wire that tied him to the material world by a thread. He swiped a hand through his hair and grimaced when it came back greasy. The oil stained his hand like wood tar and stuck to the very roots of his soul. It clung to him like an infection that showed the physicality of his state of mind in the worst of ways.

(When one can look and cast their judgment upon you from sight alone, it is quite obviously rooted in a deeper problem.

Some of the worst things to happen to people can be so deep inside their mind that no mortal eye can see it. It can infect the dark corners of your psyche until your very being is rotting even if you appear radiant with health.

Only, once that rot spreads to the outside – to the face and all its neighbors – some may no longer be able to cleanse themselves of their affliction.

Peter hoped he hadn't deteriorated so far that he could not come back from it.)

Even knowing he had super-powers couldn't change the fact that he looked bloodless and weak.

(He hadn't thought he'd ever feel weak again after the spider bite. He hadn't thought that he'd look at his form and cringe away from his own frailty as he had when he was younger.

He had thought that powers made you strong.

He had thought wrong.)

Pushing into the store, a doorbell rattled like coins in a church bin and he flinched away from the noise. The walls closed in like a vise and he breathed shakily from claustrophobia as a primly dressed woman skimmed by his shoulder to exit the shop.

Walking closer to the pastry case, he observed the sweets from afar and silently balked at the prices. His belly button had gnawed a hole into his spine until it had scabbed into a callus, but his stomach still had room to whine for food. He stared longingly at the nine-dollar breakfast sandwich on display before switching his eyes to the – frankly ginormous – brownie baked into a mini-pie pan.

(Though it wasn't quite miniature so much as about half the size of a 9-inch pie pan.)

Deciding that procrastinating anymore would be obnoxious, he walked up to the half-asleep cashier and ordered the brownie with a strained smile.

(The cashier totally thought he was homeless which, rude. The homeless population – at least in Queens – would never be stupid enough to buy a 5-dollar brownie when they were already scarce on money.)

Deciding not to say anything, the cashier completed the transaction with an awkwardly polite, 'I hope you enjoy your food, sir.'

(Was he really old enough to be considered a 'sir'? He felt as helpless as a child and as blisteringly caustic as an old man. He felt strange within his body – a mixture of newborn immaturity alongside the grating creak of ancient limbs.

Did he really age years within the small expanse of catastrophic time he had subjected himself to? Did he wrinkle with depression as his heart baked into a desiccated pottery piece underneath flames burning with agony? Had his soul tempered his unwashed features into old and withered oak?)

The brownie looked even bigger outside of the display case and his mouth watered as the cashier? Barista? – whatever, all that mattered was the brownie – drizzled a coating of caramel sauce on the fudgy dessert.

(They even toasted it, too.)

Rocking back on his heels as he waited, he noticed a different server carrying out food to the other few patrons who were seated. Deciding to join them, he slumped onto a stool at the bar lining the wall farthest from the door.

Smashing his face none too gently on the counter, he hunched forward in his seat. He pillowed his head on his arm and picked at the wood grain of the table. Raindrops began to drizzle lightly on the window before speeding up and hammering the glass like war drums resounding with foreboding. The sound was soothing, though, like the splashes and rumbles of the song of the ocean he'd heard the few times he'd been to Long Island beach with his Aunt.

(And Uncle. They'd never gone to the beach without Ben. He didn't know if they could.)

The smell of freshly baked brownie wafted into his nose and he perked up. A different server than before set the brownie down in front of him with a sympathetic smile before hurrying back to the counter. He stared contentedly at the gooey chocolate chips melting on top of the goodie and sighed.

(When Peter was 16-years-old, he ate a brownie as if it would somehow cure him of all that he had suffered. After all, sugar was the best medicine. Right?)


	13. The Sound of Drums

**Chapter Summary:** But he is steady, like a drum, and the world hits heavy on each thrum. When will it rest - take a reprieve?

For all that he sees are oceans of greed.

* * *

_Perhaps the sky is just light and dust_

_And perhaps we're all just dust too_

_Because we will all soon scatter on the wind like forgotten memories_

_And death will coat ash on every skin_

* * *

There was a point where it felt normal. Where he forgot that he was just a percentage of one negative thing after another. Where he forgot that he wasn't supposed to be good anymore – that people who dealt with what he did were supposed to turn bad at some point. He thought that that was rather silly. He felt normal because this _was_ his normal – because the darkness of man had followed him since birth so why would it shatter his resolve now? Why would his morals shift?

It was surprising, sometimes, how many things he had experienced when time flew by as if it was meaningless. He wondered where he fit it all in. How was there any space for all that he had accomplished? All that he had experienced?

16 years felt both too short and too long. At 15, he had felt mature but now he looked back at his past self and picked apart his childishness. It was a cycle that he hoped would end soon.

Maybe there _was_ a difference between age and experience. Adult minds differed so much from a teenager's, after all.

But, there was also a point where life caught up to him. Where he could see the symptoms of a mind drawn too thin.

(He realized with a dull throb of panic that he hadn't even glanced at his homework for a week.)

Gripping the countertop, he chewed on his lip and contemplated how much damage control would have to occur if he snapped it in half right there in front of all the coffee shop patrons. 'It would be a lot,' he thought resignedly as he flexed his fingers instead. The small action did nothing to calm his restless indecision and he tapped his foot quickly as his blood beat patterns underneath his skin.

Maybe he was destined to be torn apart from the inside – a maelstrom of emotions without any outlet. Hurricane winds scraped the corners of his mind and prickled his soul until he was only a body of badly controlled impulses. Maybe he wouldn't die from a villain's scheme but by his own corked worries.

Maybe – he was still stalling.

The coffee shop was painted in different tones of grey and the dreary weather outside made the world around Peter almost seem like a black and white film. The atmosphere provided a certain drama to the scene; as though his tragic lingering in a café was being romanticized even by the weather.

Perhaps he was just romanticizing himself. Maybe it was a way to find comfort in the world around him. To find beauty in tragedy made the world seem like a better place even as children starved and wars raged on.

(There are wars burning homes and breaking families right then, weren't there? Wars with bullets and bombs and fiery infernos of hate.

To know of the existence of war as an abstract is not the same as experiencing the daily coating of soot settling on your skin or the constant terror pinching at the back of your neck.

Peter thinks he is rather accustomed to war, though, being in the unique position of a teenage vigilante. He fights battles every night and comes home to a house that isn't safe. His life sounded an awful lot like a person living in a warzone.

But he isn't.

Winning a battle wouldn't end a war. It wouldn't end this world, wouldn't end the endless cycle of violence and senseless animosity that humans seemed to breed in spades. Winning a battle wouldn't end a war but it might save a life – push a few forgotten melodies into empty heads to be sung when freedom eventually prevailed.

But Peter isn't free yet. He hasn't won his battle yet. He's just a child and children are never free in this world – never free from the gunpowder noise of orphan children and lost innocence.

The only way he could be free is through the mercy of an adult. Ironically, that's what trapped him in the first place.)

The rain slid down the window in crystal blue rivulets that he traced with weary eyes. Peter thought that maybe it wasn't romanticism making his heart clench mournfully. After all, the feeling that went along with racing raindrops on car windows would more accurately be described as nostalgia.

(He wished for a time when he wasn't too sad to cry. A time when juice boxes and McDonald's fries fixed hurt feelings like they were a Band-Aid to the soul.)

Thunder rumbled dark and low in the distance as the sky turned almost purple from the dark storm clouds congregating on the horizon. Peter felt a headache build up behind his temples and he rubbed between his eyebrows to relieve the dull ache. His eyes felt dry from the tears he had shed the night before and stung from the brightness of the artificial lights inside the café.

Voices drifted through the room and Peter put his hands on his ears to block the harsh noises. There were so many different conversations that it was hard to focus on any one in particular, but the T.V. was still louder than the rest.

"…President Donald Trump has now ordered the withdrawal of all remaining U.S. Troops inside Northern Syria. That order comes as Turkish forces push further South into Syria. In fact, Turkey's leader says the offensive will go about 30-35 kilometers into Syria. Pro-Turkish forces have already taken over a strategic highway in Syria which has effectively cut off the Kurdish city of Kobani. All this, as Syria's state news agency says units from the Syrian army are moving North to confront Turkey's offensive…."

Peter shuddered, cold gripping his heart. For a moment he had thought he'd lost his empathy but, just seeing the news was enough to dissuade him of that notion.

There was war in the world that he couldn't comprehend. War and betrayal that made him sick with anger.

War that the world seemed oblivious to until it really mattered.

(It's hard to be concerned about disasters that you cannot experience. It's hard to dredge up alarm at the state of the world when its negativity seems so constant.)

Maybe Peter was selfish – overreacting to something minuscule in the grand scheme of life. Maybe Peter was privileged and spoiled by the life he'd lived.

(Maybe Peter didn't deserve to feel as piteous as he did, to feel as though his life had been uprooted and stamped upon like a weed thrown in a compost pile.)

Either way, Peter tuned out the news to avoid thinking anymore about the impending deaths of thousands of people that he couldn't do anything to prevent.

….Maybe the Avengers could, though.

Peter gave a bitter smile at that. The Avengers would never be supported in getting involved in anything 'political' ever again.

(Not that Peter thought the deaths of American allies were political, but some people seemed to be pretending it was. Like war was anything but a travesty – an injustice that _needed_ to be fought.)

Peter turned his ear to the traffic outside to drown out the high-pitched voice of the reporter on the T.V. He twitched anxiously as he heard a metallic thump in the distance just barely loud enough for the average ear to hear over the pouring rain. He jumped from his perch at the counter to find someplace to hide – he'd heard _that_ sound before – as the clomping of iron boots neared the window.

Not even questioning _how_ Mr. Stark had found him, Peter rushed to the back corner of the shop to look for a restroom.

He swiveled his head around to peer at all the nooks and crannies of the shop as he tried to find a door of any kind that _wasn't_ the kitchen, but he was only met with blank walls. The only door he could find was behind the server's counter.

Adrenaline heating his body, he felt sweat build on his brow as his stomach clenched with nausea. It didn't matter that he was planning on talking to Mr. Stark anyway, he wasn't ready.

_He wasn't ready!_

Stumbling in a panicked circle, he felt his breath pick up as he saw Mr. Stark's red and gold metal suit glaring at him from the window. The world lurched and he leaned against the display case with a grip that he distantly noted was strong enough to dent the steel edge.

Mr. Stark had once said that he wanted Peter to be better than him. Peter wondered where that kind of a standard would get him now considering he was a high school kid cowering in a coffee shop.

Peter didn't think he could live up to anybody's standards at that moment.

(He's as small as an atom under a microscope. He's just an ant waiting to be squashed by unsuspecting feet.)

* * *

Only a few months before Peter met Skip, Peter had gone to the Stark Expo. He had been thrilled to go to the event. Clinging grubby hands to his aunt and uncle, he'd dragged them through every display he could find and had watched excitedly as Tony Stark spoke from holograms and on stage.

Just before it had gotten dark, he'd seen a rack of Iron Man themed memorabilia. After begging and pulling at Ben's sleeve, his uncle had finally given in and bought him a mask. It was flimsy and made of cheap plastic. The edges were coarse and almost jagged, but he'd tied it around his face eagerly all the same.

Bouncing around with all the energy of an excited child, he'd joined the crowd as just another covered face.

(It's simpler like that.

The world tends to feel utterly separate when you're anonymous – like you've unlocked a new dimension entirely your own to explore.)

He had watched the stage as it had filled up with dancers and inventions and he'd ignored Aunt May's disapproving tutting at the risqué display. The experience had been enthralling and he hadn't realized how absorbed he was in the show until he'd finally stumbled into Ben's side, overcome with exhaustion. They hadn't bought tickets with seats, so Ben had swung him onto his back where Peter could nap lightly – as only a child who's stayed up past his bedtime could.

Not long after, Peter had encountered his first near-death experience with a plastic Iron Man mask covering his face.

The drones had activated suddenly, and he'd lost his aunt and uncle in the sudden panic of the crowd. He'd frozen in morbid curiosity (always freezing) at the malicious machines' attack. When one had swooped in and landed on heavy feet, he'd barely thought before he'd held his arm up in a pale mockery of his hero. Peter had stood tall, barely more than a halted stumble to indicate his trepidation.

(He'd been puny, then, under the eyes of metal men with cold eyes and colder touch.)

Staring down a Hammer Drone hadn't been as hard as he'd expected it to be. Initially, he'd been so fearful that he'd felt bile rise like rot in the back of his mouth. His terror had quickly faded to detached indifference as if he had only been a bystander to his own foolish bravado. He hadn't flinched in the face of danger as his body had almost seemed to hum with a calm that felt artificial.

(Like the blank spot in a movie where the music cuts out and you almost forget that what's happening on the screen isn't real. And yet, it feels so fake, so disconnected, that you're left in a strange dichotomy of present and absent that leaves you disjointed down to the tips of your toes. It's as though you've stepped back from reality to settle in the starry realm in between the fabric of the universe – the indeterminate space between matter. The quiet is pervasive until it almost rings in your ears and you watch, just a little interested, in the terrible things happening on screen – for movie silences only ever occur during terrible things.

But you still watch the screen calmly – because these terrible things do not and will not ever affect you. Emotionally, they are foreign to you. They are created for your entertainment and any visceral reaction is caused solely by the carefully constructed screenplay and soundtracks.

You are just a slave to your own impulses.

It's sometimes terrifying to know that so many people can manipulate the world around them until you're feeling happy or sad for no explicable reason. That people can pluck at your subconscious until the strings of your consciousness only play out-of-tune melodies without your consent.

It's terrifying how complicatedly simple we are.)

Peter had been so close to death, and he knew it. Knew that it had been Iron Man who'd blasted the Drone away, knew that it had only been luck that saved his life.

(Why was that the only time he had ever been lucky? He would gladly accept dying that day if it meant he didn't have to live through all the shit he'd been through. He had been so lucky that night, and yet, his life was like a lump of coal spreading the ash of disaster everywhere it went.

He was not prone to luck or chance. He was not a beneficiary of coincidence.

This was a rarity – a luxury he wasn't sure he wanted.)

And, afterward, one might have thought that wearing that mask would have been traumatic. But it wasn't.

It was soothing like warm blueberry dumplings after a bad day at school. It was calming like the rocking chair Uncle Ben had fixed up to sit alongside the mismatched furniture of their living room.

It was peaceful – a brief reprieve from existence like a nap under the sun in which one's body melds into the earth like we are just long-lost specks of dirt come to join our cousins.

That mask let Peter embrace his fears. He could climb mountains with that mask, touch stars and scale the sky.

Peter had faced monsters in that mask until it was just a coping mechanism to hide behind. It turned into a shield, a safe space to share his deepest secrets within.

And then, Skip happened.

Peter had wanted his mask for different reasons after that.

He'd wanted to use it until his head would fog and his skin would feel tight enough to make him a different person. Maybe that's what his mask was for – a way to separate himself from his body.

A way to change skin, a way to change _lives_, if only for a little while.

(A way to conceal the darkest parts of him. The parts which shouted for acknowledgment but were shrouded in shadow all the same.)

He'd hid until there was no such thing as a bad memory – no such thing as sadness and pain.  
(And maybe that life, that person in the mask, would be better.)

* * *

Peter felt his hand prickle with numbness and he shook himself out of his panicked trance to gaze at it. The metal lining on the display case was twisted and mangled like a crooked spire atop a dilapidated cathedral. It was gouged in the center of his hand, carving a deep wound from his palm to the sensitive space in between his fore and middle finger.

And yet, he couldn't feel it.

Maybe it was shock rooting him to the spot like a startled deer on a highway or maybe it was just resigned acceptance.

Either way, he wasn't looking forward to the conversation ahead.

(Have you ever been so _terrified_ that you feel as though your heart may go out – may pump blood in swift and furious pulses until it feels like a paper bag being used as life control? Have you ever seen black spots encroach on your vision until you think you may faint from your own inability to stay calm?

If you have, then Peter felt sorry for you. It was rather like a panic attack that you could function through. One where you wished you could cry but didn't.

One where you wished you could puke but wouldn't.)

Mr. Stark walked out of the suit in an obnoxious display of technological prowess. The red and gold metal warped in the air with each step as the removal gradually revealed Mr. Stark's stern and annoyed face. Steadily, the brunt of his disappointed stare could meet Peter's wide eyes through the glass.

Peter stopped, stared, and felt an abrupt desire to laugh. Mr. Stark was disappointed, how new?

He laughed, harsh and with an edge as sharp as a thorn bush until it was very clear that everyone in the café was looking at him.

Until they noticed Tony Stark, of course.

Tony walked into the shop with the air of someone willing to tear apart others just to get what they wanted. It was unsettling, but only fueled the simmering anger in Peter.

(Who was he to judge anyone for their mistakes when he had made so many himself? Who was he to pretend to care about Peter only to turn around and berate him in the next sentence?)

He made eye contact with Peter and crooked his fingers as if to order Peter to follow him. Peter snorted in contempt and shook his head defiantly.

Mr. Stark wasn't his father. Mr. Stark had no authority over him.

(Though disobeying did spark a thread of panic in his chest which wound around his ribcage like a string. It tied itself in knots as though it was preparing to draw tight enough to break his bones.)

Mr. Stark pointedly raised his eyebrows and looked across the room. Though the café was only filled with a few customers, every one of them had their phone out. A flush rose up Peter's cheek and he sheepishly gripped his wrist to wrench his hand from its' metal entrapment.

The faces of the other patrons grew slack in disbelief and Peter avoided their searching gazes as he stomped petulantly past Mr. Stark to the door. He knew he was being immature, but he couldn't help the way his fists curled in anger at the sight of Mr. Stark's stormy face.

(Like he knew what Peter _should_ be. Like he had any right to dictate Peter's actions or feelings. Like he could_ control _him.)

"Don't think you'll be keeping any footage," Mr. Stark said, waving a small hand-held device to the customers watching the billionaire, "I've already deleted any data your phones have collected in the last ten minutes. So, good try, but no cigar."

Peter rolled his eyes and forcefully pushed open the door to escape to the street.

"Well, that's not the_ exact_ phrase," Mr. Stark added as he watched Peter hold the door open impatiently, "but that just means I can patent it… "

When Tony made no indication to move, Peter clenched his jaw and dropped the door with a disbelieving huff.

"….Aaand the errant teenager is off again, so I guess that's my cue folks," Peter heard Mr. Stark say through the door, and he crossed his arms in frustration, turning away from the shop to scowl at the street traffic.

After finally exiting the shop, Mr. Stark swung his arm around Peter's shoulders and guided him down the sidewalk.

"Ah, Hell's Kitchen. Such a wonderful place to brood," Mr. Stark jabbed, and Peter ground his teeth to keep from shouting. There weren't many cars on the street, so it was easy to see Happy parked in a Black Audi just a few spaces away from the end of the block.

Peter wondered if Tony had only flown in his Iron Man suit to be dramatic.

"Here's the deal, Underoos," Mr. Stark said, eyes peering over his sunglasses, "you're gonna get your butt in the car and we're going to go straight to the tower. And there, we're going to have a nice talk about why you ran out without any tech on you and why you look like a homeless hobo."

"Aren't all hobos homeless?" Peter asked spitefully.

"That depends on your definition of a hobo."

Glaring and ignoring the commands to get into the car, Peter stopped to face Tony head-on.

"How'd you find me, anyway?"

"I can hack into CCTV's, kid," Mr. Stark said sardonically, "it's not hard to find _anyone_ who goes to the most popular coffee shop in Hell's Kitchen if you're Tony Stark. Facial recognition is a simple thing."

"And illegal," Peter retorted. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and turned around, set on reaching the park at the other end of the block.

"I spent all night looking for you, and this is how you respond?" Mr. Stark asked, raising his hands in annoyance as he lectured to Peter's back, "what do I have to do to make you give a shit?! Your Aunt's worried sick, you haven't done your schoolwork in a week, your fifteen pounds lighter than you should be, so what am I supposed to think? Am I supposed to just watch you waste away while you're out here throwing yourself a pity party? Huh? So what is it? Drugs? Sex? Girls? Boys? Bullies?! What am I supposed to do here when I have no idea what's going on?!"

"You're the genius!" Peter yelled, spinning around and pointing an accusing finger at Tony, "why can't you just see what's right in front of you?! Stop pretending like you fucking care when you obviously don't!"

"I do care, dammit!" Mr. Stark yelled back, his suit jacket fluttering around his flailing arms, "why do you think I'm even here?"

"Because you want to think you're a hero when you're not! You're just a rich guy in a metal suit who drowns his guilt in alcohol! So guess what?!" Peter asked, a breathless laugh escaping his mouth, "I don't need you and I never will! Maybe I did, once, but you're too goddamn late now!"

With that, Peter turned on his heel feeling remarkably angrier than when had started. He was fuming, and his anger felt like more than he could process. Each step he took left indents on the ground as he stormed to the green foliage at the end of the street.

It was hard to experience so many things that no one knew about – that nobody could comprehend. It was hard to go through things alone and only receive notice when it felt too late for anything to change.

(It is hard to be helped when you are already shattered. You will always wish that you could have been protected rather than mended. That you would not have been scattered pieces of a soul before your struggle was even recognized.)

And, maybe it was irrational, but some part of him blamed Aunt May and Mr. Stark on this. Aunt May had brought Skip back into his life as though he had not already destroyed it.

Mr. Stark had watched him fall apart, unaware.

Maybe it was too much to expect others to know what he was thinking or what he desired, but sometimes he wished that they would just _look_ for once. Look and notice and _see _where he was coming from because it was hard to know that May had never taken note of the nightmares the first time around; the trauma had integrated into every part of his life that it had become his new normal, but she'd never noticed a change.

It was hard to know that a watch that monitored vitals couldn't sense his distress – couldn't recognize anxiety beyond sudden wakeups and debilitating panic attacks (all of which he could tell Karen to ignore).

So, Peter was angry. He was livid and furious as a wave crashing onto sandy beaches and rearranging the shoreline to fit its' needs.

But, Peter could also hear the loud thump of Mr. Stark drooping against the side of an apartment complex. He sighed and muttered to himself, almost too low for Peter to hear, "what am I doing wrong, here?"

And… Peter felt guilty.

It was a slimy feeling, a cold feeling, a feeling that crept through his veins and made him shudder in disgust.

And Peter _was_ disgusted – disgusted in himself, in the world, in the fact that he just couldn't seem to do the right thing anymore.

(But what is the 'right thing'? Is there really such a concept of right or wrong, good or evil, when we all exist somewhere in the grey in-between of morality?)

So, he turned, anger still making him clench his muscles in agitation. He met Mr. Stark's gaze and gestured jerkily with his head, beckoning him to follow Peter to the park.

Maybe Peter didn't have to talk for Mr. Stark to listen.

(The world told him to be silent – the world told him he was worthless. And it was _wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong_.)

* * *

The bench was uncomfortable and awkward to sit on. He shifted, silent as stone, as he avoided Mr. Stark's gaze. The man had spread out, flopping onto the bench and opening his legs like a picture-perfect example of manspreading.

"Soooo, nice weather down there?" Mr. Stark asked, trying to break the awkward silence. Peter scoffed, more bitter than he intended, and slouched in his seat as well.

"I don't know," he said, glaring at nothing. He didn't know, he really didn't know. He didn't know what to say, how to be, _what _to be.

He didn't know, and he wasn't going to pretend he did.

"… kid, you can't keep doing this. You've got to let me in at some point," Mr. Stark said, pleadingly, "what's going on?"

"I **don't **know," he said, mournful and weary and bitter all at once.

(He _doesn't_ know.

He is 9-years-old and time flits by like butterflies. He counts his days in broken bones and candied smiles.

He is 10-years-old and the world is a monster that looms with scaly claws outside his windowsill until staying home becomes the only way to stay alive.

He is 11-years-old and Ned frantically gives him his inhaler because he can't tell the difference between a panic attack and an asthma attack.

He is 12-years-old and each breath he takes is stolen before it reaches his lips.

He is 13-years-old and Flash's taunts begin to hit a little too close to home.

He is 14-years-old and he can't remember a time where he felt so unsteady – he has lost his balance, his foundations.

He is 15-years-old and scrambling to find purchase in the scattered affections of anyone he meets.

He is 16-years-old and he falls through time like sand in an hourglass. Counting the hours in bloody pinpricks on his skin, he is not unaccustomed to the endless monotony of tragedy.

His skin is a map of all the ways a life can go wrong and of all the ways it can go right. But he is an ever-shifting mass of indecision – he struggles with the inability for his self-awareness to be wholly honest and unhindered by the views of others and himself.

He didn't know what to say, how to be. He couldn't put his feelings into words because they would just be scattered thoughts as empty and meaningless as the void.)

"I don't know, Mr. Stark. I don't know what you want me to say," Peter said, looking up to the sky with a heavy sigh, "I know what I should say but, even then, I don't know _what _to say."

"Do you think I could help?" Mr. Stark asked, and Peter quirked a small smile at how awkward Tony sounded.

Peter looked out at the park, silent and still and frozen like a snowman waiting for a convenient magic to somehow move his limbs or aid his speech

(He wondered if the reason he trusted Mr. Stark more than any other man in his life was because of that mask. That slim piece of plastic to cover up one's secrets.

That buffer for all the hate and love he'd ever felt.)

"I'm not really sure," Peter said slowly. His mouth tasted like he'd sucked on a sour candy and he smacked his lips uncomfortably in the silence.

"Well, what's going on?" Mr. Stark asked, obviously impatient but trying to hide it.

"I think you know, a little bit," he said with a bit of hope behind the words, "at least, you should."

"I think I know a little bit as well, but that doesn't mean I know everything," Mr. Stark said, before making a disgusted face, "did I just say that? Forget I said that. I know everything – I'm the smartest man in the world."

"Sure," Peter said, smiling softly.

His uncertainty still clogged his mind and he rocked slightly in his seat. Words kept forming in his brain like clay sculptures, but each one didn't look good enough to bake.

Decision-making was so difficult.

(There were many Peter Parkers, the way that there were thousands of hairs on our heads or that one decision could split off into nests of tangled realities. If he chose one route now, he might miss out on a thousand others.

It made making decisions daunting.)

"I think… I think I need help," Peter eventually said, closing his eyes against the glaring sunlight and imagining the soft twinkle of stars in their stead.

(Peter used to be unable to see them - the stars. But things change, and people leave and every year you're a little bit taller or shorter, wider or thinner, until you wonder if you should grieve all the things you were and would be.)

"What kind of help?" Tony asked, relief and worry warring in his voice.

"The Aunt May kind," he said, even though he knew her presence would be infinitely more difficult to deal with than Tony's.

Having her there would be more helpful in the long run, though, and he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

"Alright, kiddo, whatever you need," Mr. Stark said, and Peter frowned, distraught, because he didn't know _what_ he needed. At this point, there were too many things he struggled with to pinpoint how to fix himself.

(Did he even need fixing? Wasn't he supposed to love himself as he was? If he did that, then he would never be able to better himself, would he?

There was probably a balance, but he hadn't found it yet. He was still floundering in the deep end, just struggling to keep his head above water.

If he didn't even love himself, why would he want to be better?)

"Where are we going?" Tony asked, looking to Peter for guidance.

"Where do _you_ think we should go?" Peter asked, turning to face him.

"Depends on if you want to move or not," Mr. Stark said, his voice carefully neutral. Peter spent a second trying to see if his inflection indicated any preference, but he couldn't tell with how dispassionate Mr. Stark's voice had been.

"Could we go to the tower?" Peter asked, feeling restless as a herd of caged horses grappling to be set free.

"Sure," Mr. Stark said, rising to his feet gracefully, "Happy's probably getting impatient anyway."

Peter nodded distractedly, mind too preoccupied with what to say to May and Tony to be aware of his surroundings.

(When Peter was 15-years-old, he watched the world burn from within television screens and felt its' fire heat his skin.)


	14. Life's for the Living

**(I'm just gonna start calling this chapter summary _poem_ now, lol): **He's gonna say what a sober man couldn't say - what a heart couldn't feel.

Give a candid display, this emotional spiel, it withers - _decays._

He's gonna fall, tell you a story - prays you understand that this is the root of him.

You could rip him apart with a twitch of your fingers - with a breath from your lungs.

He's a bare and broken thing, kneeling on the raw skin of his kneecaps as he waits for judgment.

And the scythe swings like a feather on the Clyde.

* * *

_Is there a point where time stills?_

_Where silence replaces the chatter of souls?_

_Or are we destined for an eternity without reprieve_

_Defined by our constant and unending tolls_

* * *

The ride there was silent. It made him fidget distractedly as he avoided eye contact by looking determinedly out the window. Avoidance was easy, but it was much easier when the other party didn't know you were avoiding them.

His shoulders felt like ear muffs with how high he held them in anxiety. Perhaps it would go unnoticed. Perhaps he could fly under the radar - a spectacle misjudged by the world for his suffering. But, he'd already practically admitted it, hadn't he?

(They had to know what was going on. They had to know, didn't they know?)

He tried to fiddle with his hands, hissing when he realized he'd forgotten about the small injury in the sensitive skin between his fingers. It had clotted and didn't seem to need stitches, but the blood had stained his palm in sticky trails and found its way on his clothes from when he'd been too numb to remember his injury.

Mr. Stark looked at it with wide eyes even as Peter waved him away absentmindedly. It was nice to have a point to focus on the pain - grounding, in a way.

Well, it was probably a good thing he'd chosen to go to the tower, then. The tower would have plenty of medical supplies to wrap his hand with.

Even though he'd just eaten a large brownie, his stomach felt hollow and he curled protectively around it as if that would somehow soothe its' ache. He angled his body away from Tony and curled as close as he could into the door. Ignoring Mr. Stark's searching gaze as he leaned his head against the window, he watched the raindrops slide down the glass pane and distantly felt he was mimicking someone in a dramatic movie.

His life was interesting enough to be a movie, he supposed, though he'd rather it wasn't. Dramatic movie plots should stay within the big screen and stop interjecting themselves into his life. He felt that he might be turned off from watching superhero movies in the future now that he was one. How sad was it that he'd turned into everything he'd ever dreamed of and yet felt worse than he'd ever had?

He sighed, placing his uninjured hand onto the glass and relishing in the coolness. If only he could caress the clouds, gather their softness in his palms. Even with superpowers, he felt small - delusions of grandeur flitting in his imagination as he wondered what it would be like to fly even though he swung through the sky nightly.

Really, would anything ever be enough for him? He was getting mentored by Tony Stark, he'd fought both against and alongside the Avengers, he was an online sensation, and he had a wonderful aunt.

(And he had dead parents, a dead uncle, and a buttload of trauma, so maybe he was a little justified in his wallowing.)

Happy kept glancing at Peter with narrowed eyes and Peter wasn't sure if he was worried or suspicious. _Why_ Happy would be suspicious, Peter didn't know, but he couldn't say he was in the best frame of mind at the moment. Though, that could probably be forgiven.

The world felt like it was closing in on him, judgment pouring out of every corner. He could swear that each person walking down the street could see all of his mistakes from just a glance at the darkened car windows. It felt rather like he was being observed by a horde of demons, whether they were his own or the people around him didn't matter. Either way, he felt suffocated by existence itself.

He was hyper-aware of Mr. Stark calling Aunt May to ask her to come to the tower, but even though the words were sharp in his ears, he felt as though he couldn't quite register them.

The world was soft.

Hard.

Cold in a way that numbed his fingers and hot in a way that sent flames tingling up his arms.

It was heavy - weighing on his shoulders.

Light, so that every breath felt like choking.

Bright in a way that made his eyes burn.

Dark like someone had shoved their fingers into his eyes and blinded him.

The world was too much.

Too little.

Too real.

Too fake.

The world was.

The world wasn't

(The world was a laughing mob of spectators watching him fumble forward on broken feet. The world was a pit of concrete he was drowning slowly in, relief and fear warring in his veins at the thought of his inevitable end.

His mistakes laid bare in the bloodstains on his fingers, like a mocking glimpse of all that he'd lost and gained - a power that could clot his blood in minutes, but a pain that throbbed a constant ache in his chest.)

He shut his eyes until they stung with starbursts lighting up the back of his eyelids. God, how was he going to do this when even now he felt as though a thousand needles were piercing his skin? He was barely keeping back bile, and the world felt like too much to handle.

He was cold, but he didn't know if it was from the air-conditioning in the car or from the helpless unease lining the goose-prickled flesh of his arms.

Water slid down his face in icy rivulets that only added to the chill he felt as he clutched his hands to his damp clothes. Tony was wet too and Peter felt another sting of guilt at the fact that his own uncaring state meant Mr. Stark had spent minutes outside in the rain with him.

He had hardly noticed it was raining. He was so far stuck in his head that it hadn't even pricked his mind that it would be inconvenient for _anyone_ to get drenched to the bone and then sit in what basically equated to a shallow puddle.

He scratched harshly at his wrist in frustration, wishing that some sort of pain would stay - that some sensation in the physical world would last for more than just a fleeting moment. Even with the gash in his hand glaring at him, he could hardly feel any pain that wasn't solely emotional. It was as though his senses were solely restricted to the keen tack of anxiety that pushed through his sternum and rested snug and sharp against his heart.

Mr. Stark sent him a glance filled with concern and he winced, hiding his eyes as if that could prevent the impending conversation. His gut ached with dread at the sight of the tower and he pulled his lips into a thin line as he grimaced in pain. His emotions were so strong they physically hurt him and he held onto that pain as if it were any appropriate connection to reality.

The car rumbled into a parking garage. Turning into a seemingly dead-end, Happy didn't slow as a wall approached the front of the vehicle. About fifteen meters before they would collide, the wall split and opened to what appeared to be an obnoxiously large and high tech elevator. He parked the car as the elevator rose a few floors before the doors slid open to reveal one of Tony's personal garages. It was filled with fancy cars that Peter knew he'd faint if he ever saw the price tag for.

Somehow, that wasn't important to him at the moment; Aunt May was standing in the doorway to the personal floor of the tower.

* * *

Peter had tasted death and found it lacking. Had lapped up the bitter tears of the sky as if they could revive his chapped lips and thirsty soul.

Peter had survived off of the fumes of a life half-lived and yet he was only 16. He was mature enough to know that he needed help, but his way of asking for help left much to be desired.

After all, he'd mostly just hoped that if he was in enough pain - if he _showed_ he was in enough pain, if he lashed out and grieved and wailed - then someone would notice. He'd even considered harming himself to draw other's concern. Though he'd already harmed himself in other, less direct ways than the direct sting of a knife to skin.

His ways to get attention were painful, harsh - _cruel_. Perhaps he hated himself more than he thought - to let himself live the way he had been. It had almost gotten to the point where he wasn't living at all. He had morphed into a frighteningly blank slate. Was he really living at all when most of who he was were pieced together parts of a human?

He was a rather good actor, and that more than anything scared him. Not necessarily because he felt dishonest, but because fabricating most of his existence to those around him made him question who he was in the first place.

Was he the witty vigilante who walked with a straight back and firm feet? Was he the socially awkward nerdy teen who didn't know how to talk to girls? Was he the moody teen trying to find a will to live?

Who was he, really, when most of who he was was formed by carefully constructed interactions set up to please the world around him?

It was strange, though, that he could tell others emotions so easily. That he could pick up on minuscule microexpressions and adjust himself accordingly.

See, he might not know what _he_ was feeling, but he was rather good at mimicking emotions. People fidgeted and stuttered and averted their eyes when they were nervous. They blushed and stammered and apologized when they were flustered. They glowered and yelled and glared when they were angry. They raised an eyebrow and shifted their bodies when they were curious. They smiled softly when they were being kind and brightly when they were happy. A slight furrow of the brows or a pursing of the lips meant they were concentrated.

And he knew how to do this - he was rather good at smiling and laughing and stuttering and raising his eyebrow. He didn't know why he did it - play pretend. Maybe it was to fit in. Maybe it was to try to understand what he was feeling. Maybe it was to pretend that he had feelings at all.

What was frustrating was that he wasn't even that likable when he was playing pretend - well, people-pleasing would probably be a more apt description. So, really, who was he at all?

Aunt May's worried face met his gaze and he took a shaky breath, unsure of how to behave in front of her for the first time in a while.

(He'd never known what to do in front of Skip, though it often felt like he'd never had a choice for how he reacted. Skip's voice was smooth like resin, sweet until it hardened into an amber shell, trapping him forever as nothing more than an ornament to be admired. His autonomy had always been stripped by Skip before he could even react.)

Mr. Stark graciously didn't say anything as he got out of the car. He followed stiffly, his arms more like wooden trucks than limbs. Wincing as she hugged him tightly, he raised his arms to give her a cautious hug.

Feeling the sudden urge for comfort, he squeezed her tightly and felt a sharp pang of grief that he couldn't hold her without being cautious of crushing her ribs. He nuzzled his head into her shoulder, muffling a choked sob. His eyes prickled as bitter agony pierced his throat and ripped his heart like a wolf tearing apart its prey.

(He was dangerous, could kill with a flex of his fingers.)

"Oh, Peter," May said, kissing the top of his head and running her fingers through his curls, "let's get inside."

He nodded, taking a shuddering breath to prepare himself before stepping back to wipe his eyes on his still damp sleeve.

Avoiding meeting anyone's gaze, he followed behind Mr. Stark and Aunt May as they walked into the private floor. Walking past the kitchen, he noticed Mr. Stark separated from the group to head to the counter as May continued to the living room.

"Does anyone want hot chocolate?" he called, obviously looking for something to distract him and Peter smiled through his discomfort at the notion.

"Sure," he said, as May said no.

He continued walking, ignoring the itchy feeling of eyes on him. He tried to tell himself to stop being paranoid, but the fact that there were cameras in every corner of the room he was in wasn't easing his nerves.

He joined May on the couch, curling up into a ball against the armrest and studiously ignoring anything but the thread of the upholstering. He clenched the fabric of his jeans in his palms as he tucked his head in between his knees and chest. Flexing his fingers against his shin bone, he turned his head into the armrest and rubbed his forehead against it to stave off the headache throbbing behind his eyes.

He needed to pee, he noticed, uncomfortably. He jolted out of his seat to rush to the bathroom, feeling ashamed and anxious at his retreat for some strange reason.

Looking at the mirror as he washed his hands, he realized he felt different in a way he couldn't explain. Like his whole perspective had shifted and his body was rewired just a few codes short. He could vaguely see the similarities between his past self and his present, but his face still seemed slightly off - as though he was only the broken twin of himself.

His cheekbones seemed higher as if his face gaining some regality would make his life just as glamorous. But, his skin seemed duller - clear from acne but obviously uncared for all the same.

(Uncaring - apathetic, did he have anything to motivate his continued existence? What was he but a silent bell, his purpose unnecessary because of a few broken parts? What was he but the broken, tattered edges of a frayed being with nothing more than his body left to offer?

He wasn't anything but scattered bits of synapses firing in practiced patterns to keep him alive - no matter how little he was living.)

And yet, through it all, he also remained invariant - lips thin and chapped, eyes wide and dark, hair brown and wavy. Through it all, he seemed unchanged, _normal_ \- a boy on the cusp of manhood.

A young teen waiting for his first kiss.

(There's a voice that whispers darkly in his mind that he'd be really good at kissing now. That he'd be able to pick people apart by the way their body shifts left or right. That he could be in the lead for once, teach people all that he'd learned from things he'd never wanted to experience.

It's just, he doesn't know if he can kiss anyone without the smell of Skip's musk clogging his nose and choking him in bad memories. He doesn't know if his lips would lick up poison from his partner's mouth.

He doesn't know if there's a soul who could kiss a soul like his.)

He sat back down on the couch, noting the presence of a first aid kit in front of May. She beckoned him over, face expressionless in a way that made his stomach churn. She seemed angry, even though he knew she wasn't. But, knowing wasn't the same as accepting.

He sat in front of her, silent as she picked up his hand to clean it. It had already healed a little, wound smaller than it should've been considering the state it started in.

She stoically maneuvered his hands, ignoring the fact that he couldn't meet her eyes. He didn't know if he wanted her to say something or for her to remain silent. He rubbed the fingers of his right hand together, clenching his hand into a fist to distract himself from the hands on his fingers.

She finally tied off a piece of gauze, pulling back as he escaped to the corner of the couch once more.

"What happened?" she asked, concern lacing her voice. He shrugged, looking to the wall in a childish attempt to end the conversation.

She sighed, evidently figuring she shouldn't push.

He was grateful.

Mr. Stark came back with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, though Peter suspected he had put a healthy serving of espresso in hs.

"Soo," Tony said, pursing his lips, "Where do we start?"

A twinge of annoyance flared in Peter's chest because _he_ didn't know where to start. It was strange that he wanted so badly for someone else to take control when he was so used to feeling out of control - when his whole life had been dictated by things outside of his control. But he was scared - scared of the unknown. Scared of saying something wrong.

Being something wrong.

(Being the problem in the first place.)

He looked to Tony, a pleading expression on his face even though he knew Mr. Stark would have no way to know what Peter was pleading for.

Predictably, Tony looked to May for help, making May huff out an exasperated laugh.

"Boys," she said, smiling to lighten the mood as she squared her shoulders and faced Peter.

"We're worried about you, Peter," she said, as he flicked his eyes up to meet hers, "we don't know how to help you because we don't know what's going on."

He nodded absently, biting his lip and shifting the mug of cocoa on its coaster.

"I don't - I," he started, feeling his breath shorten as he tried to find the words.

"Give me a minute," he said, eventually, struggling to contain his panic.

May nodded. "Take as much time as you need," she said, "we have all day."

He nodded swiftly, the motion distracting as his chest tightened with trepidation.

(What would happen if he lied? If he pretended that there was nothing wrong besides teenage angst or superhero trauma?

Would the world keep on spinning as if everything was fine? Would he keep fading like the taillights of a car driving further and further away until it was just a speck of light on the horizon?

And what would happen if he somehow did say the words? What words would he even say to convey the things he'd felt? The scars he'd gained?

What could he do when anything he said would impact his world far more than he wanted it to?)

When he thought of Skip, his stomach lurched with fear. The words collected in his throat even as he felt his blood drain to his toes until his face tingled with withheld tears. He saw the ghost of Skip in the cramped corners of the room and shuddered from his perceived observation.

He'd never gotten the talk about bad touches and strange men. He was sort of bitter about it, now, trying his hardest to blame all his trauma on anything he could find. How was he supposed to navigate this when they'd never even told him that what happened to him was wrong?

(_Was_ it wrong? Or was it him who was wrong - attracting danger and being unsatisfied with all that he'd been given?)

No one had told him what to do with this damage he'd been given. No one had told him what to do, how to be, how to navigate the darkest parts of humanity.

(Isn't it strange how much absent things affect you? How the things you have not touched or heard or seen can shape you? How blank spaces are the biggest parts of your structure?)

He looked to the table, unable to meet May or Tony's eyes. Holding back the words almost made his jaw hurt and it twinged with a sort of dissatisfaction that ran deep into his bones.

He picked at the grain of the table, ignoring the eyes on him even though he knew he was just prolonging the inevitable.

"Skip - " he said, pausing when Aunt May gasped because _what did that mean? Did you know? Why do you already sound horrified?_

His heart pinched in his chest - feelings of betrayal swirling behind his sternum. He felt rather like a tub of ice cream being scooped out from the inside - hollow and cold. He breathed in sharply as though the air could fill him - could calm him, could soothe the raw feeling in his throat.

"Skip touched me," he admitted and wasn't that an uncomfortable sentence? One that scratched at his lungs like pollen in the springtime. Mortification seized his ribcage and he tried to tamp down the shame coloring his cheeks. What did he have to be sorry for? Why did he feel so _guilty_?

(He was so scared - so _ashamed_ \- by just those simple words. Ones that felt taboo. They were words that he felt like he shouldn't share. As if they were socially unacceptable _because they were_.)

Right after he spat the words out, he saw it. The light in their eyes fading, the horror running up their spines.

He wanted to take it back. To comfort them.

To make them feel better because just that one look of grief sent guilt to his gut until he felt like he was drowning in regret.

He was solid now, like a statue of stone. The couch cushion tore in his fingers and he could only flinch as May covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a sob.

There was a ringing in his ears and he wanted someone to say something, _anything_, to comfort him. Perhaps tell him they were sorry or that they had a plan.

He needed someone to have a plan. To figure out the next move.

To tell him what to _do_.

"No, Peter," May whispered and he almost screamed because _what did she mean?_

Was she angry? Sad? Guilty? Horrified?

The sound of breaking ceramic echoed in the room and he glanced up. The hot chocolate filling Mr. Stark's mug was dripping down his wrist, soaking into his sleeves as he gripped what was left of the handle in his palm.

Tony was angry.

Peter wanted to cry.

Peter wanted someone to _tell him what to do._

So he froze.

A solid statue of a boy, he did what he always did.

He froze.

As Tony growled that he would kill Skip and May gripped Peter tightly to her chest, Peter froze. As apologies were whispered like a prayer in his ears and Tony was held back by Happy - _when did Happy get here?_ \- Peter froze.

As Aunt May pulled back to grip his shoulders and stare with eyes blown wide with panic, asking "how bad?" like that was something that mattered.

Like that was something he could answer without a bald-faced lie.

Peter froze.

(When Peter was 16-years-old, he wished that someone could tell him what would happen next, could promise him that everything would be okay, but no one said the things he needed them to and something in him _shattered._)


	15. Where to Begin

**Chapter Summary:** There is something akin to madness in it. A sad attempt at justification, when really? How do you justify this?

* * *

_We are empty of dreams_

_Just hollow shells_

_We can burst at our seams_

_Plead with agonized yells_

_(But nothing will hear us if we waste away in self-imposed cells)_

* * *

He shut down after that.

It wasn't that he disassociated, it was just that he wasn't quite _present._ He felt so anxious that he almost couldn't breathe and wondered if silent panic attacks were a thing as he could hardly twitch his fingers through his discomfort.

If they were, he wouldn't be surprised if he'd experienced an inordinate amount of them.

May was crying silently, he noticed, hugging him from the side and kissing his temple. She was rocking him slowly as well, shushing him with soft whispers and assurances. She'd shifted into her determined state – the one where she would block out her own pain for his sake.

He didn't like the pang of guilt in his chest from it.

(Like the rotting carcass of a burned-out church, he was smoldering in an uncomfortable purgatory. One where the wood of his heart was alit by flames which threatened to devour him whole with his self-determined blame.)

Something about feeling so guilty for ratting out his abuser made him feel like a terrible person. He knew he shouldn't feel guilty for telling on Skip and he felt sick that he even was, but that didn't make the guilt go _away._

It was like Skip's name had carved into his ribs, a stain that could never be washed out. Like a black hole, Skip sucked everything good from the world until his chest felt like it would cave in from the pressure of holding so much inside of it.

People said you weren't supposed to hold onto your grief – your trauma and pain – and maybe Peter understood that, now, watching the world around him crumble to dust through blurry eyes.

(And, since dust is made of human skin, are we also just beings made of dust? Or is it like the rule of squares and rectangles – one cannot be the other, and yet, they're both the same?)

He felt like he was going to throw up. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was unwelcome in this circumstance.

He wasn't sorry, really, but it stung to know that he'd hurt his aunt and his mentor so much.

He tried to stay afloat with the sharp rising and falling of Mr. Stark's voice ringing in his ears, but his awareness was dragged down by something heavier than gravity – escaping his fumbling fingers to melt into the floor in a sick puddle of something only vaguely resembling humanity.

They sat in an uncomfortable limbo between silent and loud. Peter wasn't surprised Mr. Stark was angry, really, but he wished for one or the other; not the painful buzzing in his ears that came from the inability to comprehend the opposing stimuli in the room.

Something about Mr. Stark's anger set his ears buzzing. His mind scrambled to keep up – to process anything beyond the dull roar in his ears like the rushing of waves tumbling over each other to reach the shore.

(Waves churned and broke apart shells under their wake. They eroded rocks until they smoothed. They weathered shards of glass until they gleamed teal and sparkled in the sunlight.)

At the root of anger was a desire for change.

(See, violent things _changed_ people, and places, and things. Slow or fast, they could break things apart and build them back up again.

Turbulent seas were only one example of this. Natural disasters could strike cities, countries,_nations_, and tear the very Earth apart at its seams. Sickness could rot the body with bloodless pain until families would collapse under the pressure or nations would weaken under the heavy weight of their corpses.

Violent things – angry things – changed people, and places, and things.

Or so people said.)

Apathy was often related to passivity, though Peter wondered who thought that you couldn't wish for change half dead – both physically and emotionally. A lack of anger was often deemed as contentment within a situation, but he just thought it meant a lack of faith that it _would_ change.

Being content was different than being hopeless.

And apathy had long been a coping mechanism for when he felt too much – _heard_ too much.

It wasn't something he'd have chosen consciously, but it helped him curb his panic sometimes. Though it was easy to see that once he'd fallen into apathy, he tended to hide from his problems – to push them away and pretend they weren't there like an ostrich with its' head in the sand.

(Though hiding from the things that hurt him did not mean he had no desire for things to get better.

For _himself_ to get better.)

He could understand Mr. Stark's anger, though. He could understand that anger was his only way to cope with his discontentment of the situation. It was logical to assume that anger meant a desire for change because it often did.

But that didn't mean that Peter's empty tears at midnight trying to swallow around the hollow feeling in his chest were any less of a desire for something to get better.

For things to not be as terrible as they were.

For the world to be what it said it would when he was young and stupid and still saw the world through bright eyes and rose-colored glasses that made the world shine in pretty pastels.

When he still believed the empty promises Aunt May was telling him – that it would be 'alright'.

That he would be 'fine'.

People act as if faith could save the world – could be anything less than a crutch to rely on.

He knew differently.

(Faith was just a cold comfort to hide behind.)

Peter pondered when he lost his faith, but then he realized that it had to be long ago. Long before bruised souls and battered innocence and long before he knew the taste of betrayal.

It was probably sometime around the death of his parents. The time when he'd been promised they'd be back soon only for them to never return at all.

Peter wondered if he was selfish for developing trust issues from that.

(He wondered if he was foolish for building his trust back up again – scarred, but unguarded and optimistic once more.

He wondered if that was the beginning of his downfall: letting himself open up again after he'd already been hurt once.

'Once bitten, twice shy' had never quite applied to him when he'd needed it to.)

Aunt May shouted something _loud_ above his head and he snapped back into focus, watching the world slow down to see that he'd curled further into himself in the span of time between his confession (as if he'd _sinned_) and the subsequent degradation of the situation as a whole.

Tony shouted back, "Well, what else am I supposed to do?!"

"Worry about Peter for now! You're supposed to be a superhero, so act like one!"

Peter didn't know what Mr. Stark and May were referring to, but the way Mr. Stark seemed to deflate at May's words calmed the atmosphere of the entire room.

He didn't think he wanted to know, really.

May looked towards him, eyes soft as she asked, "honey, do you want to talk to us about it?"

"…I don't know," he said, feeling as lost as a piece of rotting wood being tossed by stormy seas. He thought he should probably be worried by that analogy.

After all, rotting wood only had more room to break.

"What do we do now?" Peter asked, hoping that someone might finally come up with a solution to this seemingly unsolvable problem.

"Whatever you need us to do," May said, calmly (but clearly she wasn't calm at all if the way her heart beat like the pounding feet of a stampede was any indication).

"I don't **know **what I need, so tell me what's going to happen! I need to know what's going to happen!" he yelled, his voice cracking on a tearless sob, tearing through the silent living room like a lightning strike. The scent of ozone seemed to linger in the air, and he wondered if he imagined the faint tingling discomfort that clung to his skin like unwelcome static electricity.

(Peter liked rainstorms because no matter how hard the water from the sky would try to wash him away, he could stand strong against its currents. Torrential downpours could soak him to his soul, and he'd swim in it; reminded of how to breathe through lungs that were filled with liquid instead of air.)

Mr. Stark finally looked at him, unsure, and he wondered if a subject like this would be easier to approach if he was a normal kid. He wondered if the DNA in his blood made this harder – built a barrier between them far deeper than age and experience.

Was he human enough to heal like one?

Physically, he didn't seem human at all. Sometimes, his hands would bleed from cuts and scrapes and then heal too quickly for him to be sure his wounds ever existed in the first place.

Sometimes, it made him feel like some sort of broken-winged angel who tumbled down from heaven, damned to live among mortals in some sort of in-between state of human and monster. He wondered what caused him to fall, what cursed him to stagger forward like a newborn foal on a ground made of broken shards of glass and rusty nails.

(People are not like the rain, or the snow, or the leaves. They are not pretty when they fall.

They are ugly, twisted things unraveling at the seams like torn stuffed animals spewing their guts to the world. They are bloody and vicious and horrifying things that freeze the blood and carve holes of fear into all who witness their demise.

Broken people – _hurt _people – are devastating things to witness.)

Skip was a human, or maybe he wasn't. He was a reckoning, really, with bombs for hands and blood on his teeth. A symbol of a coming rapture– like that's what you'd see in the end times: the inevitable destruction of everything.

(Everything will fade away, even Peter.

He'll come and he'll go and Peter wonders if that makes him human or not.)

Why did he hide the truth for so long – to the point where he crossed his fingers beneath his blankets in the middle of the night and wished on blinking headlights that there weren't any more kids out there like him? Wishing that he was the only one Skip had ever hurt, because then he'd know that he hadn't done anything wrong.

But if he'd stayed silent only to let other people – _children_ – get hurt as well, then.

Then he'd be just as culpable in their abuse, wouldn't he?

And he just had to make it that way, had to continue this cycle with bruised fingers gripping tight to something that wasn't there anymore.

Because something in Peter thought he owed it to Skip to stitch his mouth together like a particularly well-mannered doll. Somehow, the lingering vestiges of friendship had sunk its claws into his mind and said, '_you don't really want to hurt him, do you?'_

And the worst part was that he _didn't._

So he stayed silent.

He stayed still.

And he was left with only the speculations of what Skip could've done to so many _more_ who were just like him.

(Peter Parker always freezes when it matters most.)

"I did nothing," he said, voice hollow even to his own ears, "I froze, I stayed still. I let it happen."

And he didn't even mean that he was blaming himself, really. It was more that he just _let it be._ He ignored it – pushed it out of his mind selfishly only to put others at risk as well through his own inaction.

"So, what do we do when I don't even know how to say half the things he's done? When I don't even think I can! When I don't actually_ know _half the things he's done!"

Tears prickled at his eyes, though they weren't enough to fall.

He wondered if he should be glad he had more tears to shed or sad that he was still crying over something of his own making.

(They say you make your bed and lie in it.

He wishes his bed weren't so uncomfortable, wishes he'd had the strength to keep it maintained.)

Mr. Stark swallowed uncomfortably as May sucked in a sharp breath.

_Horror,_ that was what they were feeling.

(His chest ached.)

"Honey, we've got this. You don't have to worry, you don't have to say anything at all," May smoothed back his curls, smiling a smile that would be comforting in any other circumstance, "we're here no matter what, you don't have to do this alone. Doing nothing isn't wrong if that's what you want to do."

The words made him feel awkward, though they shouldn't have. The words were meant to cheer him up, but maybe he wasn't ready for them.

Or maybe he just didn't believe them – didn't want to _hear _them.

"Hey, in these kinds of situations it's totally normal to freeze. It's a perfectly natural biological response, which, from an evolutionary standpoint is total bullshit, but I digress," Tony said, taking a deep breath to collect himself. He was obviously panicking and holding back anger that, even though Peter knew it wasn't directed at him, made Peter have to hold back a flinch, "The point is, the only person to blame is Skip and Skip alone."

Mr. Stark was awkward, and he was fumbling, and he was _angry_. He was so _angry_, Peter could tell.

But he was also right, even though something in Peter wished he wasn't – some part of him held onto any sort of self-blame he could find as if it was a healthy way to find control in his situation.

Because Peter was 9 when they met. They were just _children_ – and, god, what did that make him now?

If Peter was still a child now, then_ Skip _was still a child then – when he'd been young and naïve and filled with so much hopeless hope.

And how did he confront the fact that his abuser started abusing him at the same age he was now? How could he confront that some people would still look at Skip and think _'he's just a kid'_?

Peter didn't want to confront it, really. He'd done a lot of confronting already. More than he was used to, at least.

But did he really deserve a break?

Him, who could've let others be hurt by his negligence – did he really deserve to rest peacefully as if he hadn't sat by knowing there was a child predator on the loose?

"…I don't know what to do," he confessed quietly, wincing at the fact that he was practically repeating himself at this point.

"We'll figure it out," Aunt May said, rubbing a circle on his shoulder, "we always do."

(When Peter Parker was 16-years-old, he learned that confronting his problems was only the first step in fixing them.)


	16. Nothing's Changed

**Chapter Summary: **Some things stuck with him - unchanging despite the passing time. Small things that contrasted sharply with the image he had tried to set up for himself.

It was disappointing, of course, but Peter was used to being disappointed.

* * *

_Stars can burn your skin until you peel back layers of yourself dried off in the heat_

_But at night, you can freeze because you've gotten used to the sun_

_But the sky is filled with barren rocks and frigid lies_

_So what is there to do but run?_

* * *

Peter felt alone. He felt alone most of the time, so it wasn't such an extraordinary feeling, but still.

No one knew what to do with the news. He supposed it was a new experience for the rest of them too, and he wondered why that hurt – as if he wished someone he loved had been hurt enough to share his pain. Some part of him thought he'd feel comforted if he knew that he wasn't alone in his suffering. Perhaps that made him a terrible person.

Still, Aunt May, Tony, and Happy they...well, they were trying, and that was all that really mattered, wasn't it?

While Tony made calls and shouted into his phone in his lab – which apparently wasn't soundproofed enough for Peter's super hearing – Happy ordered take-in. Peter didn't know what Mr. Stark had to do to resolve the situation, but he knew that Happy planned to call the school; he needed to inform the administration that Peter would be absent for the next few days.

Apparently, Peter 'needed a break'. Which, well, he supposed that was true.

Happy hadn't said anything yet, which Peter was almost happy about. He wished he knew how much Happy had heard, but he wasn't really keen to ask. So Peter just...sat there – alone in his mind as Aunt May tried to draw him back to the present by playing old Disney movies.

She'd offered him the choice between Finding Nemo and Toy Story and he'd picked Finding Nemo. He'd always fallen asleep to Nemo as a child – even before the first scene had ended he'd be snoring in his bed. He hoped that some of the calming aspects of the movie would still affect him today.

"Here, I brought you this," she said quietly, setting his phone down onto the coffee table in front of him. He muttered a thank you and she smiled far wider than what would be considered natural.

She grabbed some throw blankets and Peter dully noticed her begin to build a small pillow fort. When he was younger, they'd often watched movies in pillow forts if they'd had the time. Though, most of his memories with pillow forts included Skip so the sentiment wasn't as appreciated as he wished it could've been.

When Skip and Peter had played superheroes together they would make the fort their base of operations. They would run around and take cover from imaginary gunfire behind the cushions.

If they were playing with action figures they'd try to close off the fort entirely; hanging blankets in front of any open space so that the only light would be the dull gleam peaking through the thin fabric. They would huddle within the tent-like area and if the fort happened to still be up by bedtime, Peter would curl up and sleep in it. When they did clean it up, Skip and Peter would jump on it and collapse into fits of giggles and...

It was fun.

It _had _been fun.

But, that had been ruined too alongside so many other activities that Peter had enjoyed as a kid. Or, as a _younger_ kid.

He swallowed down the influx of melancholic nostalgia at the sight of the precariously balanced cushions and tried to blank his expression. He wasn't sure what to do with his face. It felt almost like a foreign appendage – not quite connected to his body but having to be dealt with begrudgingly all the same.

May was trying to comfort him with it which was all that really mattered, wasn't it? He didn't need to share any more secrets today. He didn't think he _could._

He'd learned to grapple with secrets as if they were mountain summits somehow crumbling off the surface of the earth. They jumbled together in a conglomeration of forgotten knowledge that rushed to break free from Earth's atmosphere like some sort of reverse meteorite.

(His secrets were supernovas wanting for his dusty lungs to expand under their crushing weight.)

Peter's secrets twisted like browning ivy vines; velvety leaves juxtaposed by dagger-like thorns. The stems pulled and dragged on the skin of his throat. He could feel the throb of open wounds in the confines of his chest.

So he swallowed – clenched his jaw, tensed the muscles in his legs, and sat still. Remaining still and frozen had equated to safety long ago, despite the lack of logic in his body's assumption.

May wiped the hair off his forehead and smiled warmly at him.

"You wanna come in the nest?" she asked teasingly.

He nodded but didn't move. The ball he'd curled into was comfortable. It felt safe even if that might have been irrational. The smallest shift felt as though the world was shaking from the core. Any further change, no matter how slight, seemed as monumental as an earthquake.

She sat down beside him and he felt tears gather again in his eyes. He'd already cried so much that the rising tide of anguish billowing past his lips was maddening.

The sobs settling in his mouth were whiny and small like the wails of a newborn. A whimper slipped past the cage of his teeth and he moaned as his head throbbed with dehydration. His vision filled with saltwater and caused his surroundings to distort into an unshaped blob. The world blurred and sparkled as he squinted in an attempt to blink away his tears.

He tilted his head back and swallowed, trying in vain to stave off the ensuing meltdown.

He wondered what it would be like to float placidly in the saltwater leaking from his eyes and reach his own version of nirvana. He'd never been able to feel entirely calm in the water without some sort of floatation device, but whenever he'd been able to lean back and drift along the surface with ratty pool noodles stuck under his neck and ankles he could swear he'd found temporary inner peace.

(Water was such a conflicting element. It was constantly at odds with itself – waves crashing and disturbing the surface of the sea but settling into almost glass-like smoothness within an hour.

Water could be rational – flowing in a predictable direction and following its path without variation. But, add external factors and it could change its' course entirely; turn into the raging epicenter of flash floods and other natural disasters.)

Maybe it was just the abundance of tears, but he thought he saw Aunt May swipe away her own wetness on her cheeks. He didn't want to think she was crying as well so he ignored it. Despite the pang in his chest from guilt, he didn't do anything to help. He felt too emotionally drained to be a hero right then, and each reluctant sob only drained him further.

(He was Peter Parker, not Spider-Man. He was 16-years-old though he felt both too young and too old for that age. He was scared.

He was so very scared.)

"Shh, sweetie," Aunt May said, holding him close to her chest and rocking him slightly in a mirror of their positions just half an hour before, "it's gonna be alright."

He gasped, clutching her shirt in his fist like a toddler. His breaths quickened and he hiccuped and coughed around the cries stuck in his chest.

"I-I'm sorry," he said, trembling, "I'm alright."

She didn't call Peter out on his blatant lie and he shuddered more in her arms, spluttering on phlegm and snot.

_"I CAN'T!"_ he finally shouted, punching a white-knuckled fist into the couch cushions.

"I-I _can't,_" he said, his voice warbling with tears, "I don't know what to do!"

"You'll be okay," she repeated and, even though he didn't feel like that was true at all, her words were still comforting. Despite how much he wished to stop crying, though, his tears refused to end. His body's lack of control over its' own facilities only made him more stressed and he tugged on his hair in a futile attempt to ground himself.

It did give him a burst of manic energy and he jumped up with the sudden urge to do something – _anything._ He grabbed his phone off the table and slid it into his pocket swiftly. Tapping his foot a few times, anxious with indecision, he sat down roughly in the fort and tuned out the sound of his breaths hitching every few seconds with suppressed wails.

There wasn't anything he could do to distract himself so he waited, tense and anxious, for May to join him in the fort.

After a few moments, he heard her sigh and begin to move, settling down beside him. Running a hand through his hair, she gently leaned him against her chest so her body became his backrest.

It was strange: how he could lift a car but still be weak enough to lean against a far more fragile person. Aunt May was in no means helpless, but compared to him – someone who could smash concrete with his bare fists – she was as small and powerless as an ant.

But here she was, holding Peter in her arms like he was something to be protected, like he was something precious. He breathed and held her hand – somehow still bigger than his – and felt as if he was 7 again and grieving with his first real taste of loss. He'd felt even younger than 7 then as well, having been dressed in black funeral garb too big for his body.

(Peter had always been small. Even now, he was so very small – like a child who couldn't even cross the street without holding the hand of an adult.)

It was funny: how much he had once wanted to be special and how much he wished he wasn't now that no one could hope to match him in uniqueness. Which wasn't to say that somewhere out there there wasn't someone more special than him – he was a fan of _Thor_, thank you very much. It was just that, within the confines of Earth, there weren't many people who could boast the same unique experiences he'd had.

When it came down to it, Peter didn't have anything inherently special about him. He wasn't born with power or money, but he came by it through sheer luck and chance. He was smart enough, but he certainly wasn't the smartest. He wasn't overly attractive or passionate like Michelle or as dedicated to his nerdy interests as Ned.

Peter had never been rich or influential - though perhaps Spider-Man had filled his capacity for influence.

(Spider-Man was everything good he'd never earned but had gotten to experience anyway.)

So, really, Peter himself wasn't special, but his _circumstances_ were.

But, everyone was immortal in some way - forever and yet so minuscule in the grandness of the universe. Humans could change billions with words or even just a few, but even the smallest human impact would always be exponential.

Expansive.

Even if he died, he'd be kept alive through a thousand more lives and a thousand more words. Those stories shared of him would spiral into every interaction between people who knew him or knew _of_ him until the world would forever shift slightly to account for every effect his actions would impact.

Poets sometimes tried to downplay the human experience. It was true, in some ways, that humans were small - _tiny_ in the grand scheme of things. But, in many ways, the impact a single human could leave was immeasurable. Humans were, in the grandest sense, larger than life.

Humans weren't held down by the constructs of death. Souls, in the metaphorical sense, could survive far longer than their bodies decayed.

It surprised him, really: how big an impact even the shortest of lives could leave.

(Like spiderwebs hanging in the depths of his mind, memories of his parents and Uncle Ben clung to the grey matter until they covered every surface of his brain – every slight movement he made being directly affected by his loss.)

May shifted, pulling a blanket over them as he breathed deeply to calm his waning sobs. She called out to F.R.I.D.A.Y. to start the movie and he relaxed at the sight of previews.

The only thing he disliked about streaming services like Netflix was their lack of previews.

He wasn't the largest fan of television commercials but, when watching a movie, the previews always seemed to set the mood. He wondered if F.R.I.D.A.Y. was just playing a copy of the disc because it seemed strange for her to be able to play previews if it was being streamed.

Then again, he'd mentioned multiple times to Mr. Stark when they had movie nights to play the DVD copies rather than stream it just for the chance to watch the previews. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to have noticed.

Mr. Stark had always made fun of him, but it was nice to have a time before the movies to finish getting set up and make popcorn or get a glass of water if needed.

The trailers for old Pixar movies made him smile with nostalgia as he tried to wipe his wet face with his thankfully already dirtied sweatshirt. His eyes were somehow still watering, but the tightness of his chest had loosened considerably. Aunt May's hand running through his hair was sadly more uncomfortable than soothing, but he tried to tune out the feeling rather than let it bother him.

By the time the movie started, he felt like he might have been able to smile again - even if it was slight.

* * *

Apparently, his penchant for falling asleep during Finding Nemo had lasted. Peter woke up to the shifting of May as she tried to find a more comfortable position. He was curled in a ball on the cushions with his head pillowed on her leg. Half-asleep, he felt too tired to change his position so he just waited for her to situate herself before burrowing himself further into the pile of cushions, blankets, and legs that he'd found himself in.

He didn't hear the movie or the credits so he assumed the movie had ended or that May had paused it when he fell asleep. His groggy mind didn't have the energy for complicated thought, though, so he just closed his eyes and blocked out the light.

"Do you want any of the pizza before I put it away?" Happy tried to whisper but failed.

"Shh," Aunt May hissed back, voice entirely too loud to be telling someone else to be quiet, "Peter's sleeping."

"He's still asleep?" Happy asked, though he didn't sound annoyed, "you can still eat anyway. It's not like you have to eat in the kitchen; Tony wouldn't mind."

"I know, I just don't want to wake him up," May whispered back, sounding slightly reluctant to refuse the pizza.

"Alright," Happy said, acquiescing even though he didn't sound pleased.

Ughhh, Peter's conscience was screaming at him and he just wanted to sleep and avoid everything and ignore his problems and – he really understood ostriches right then.

He was feeling rather hungry himself, though. Considering this was the first time in days he'd had a real appetite, it seemed like a sign that he should feed his monstrous metabolism.

He groaned – audibly this time – and sat up. Blinking blearily at the lights, he wiped his crusty eyes and grimaced at the feel of dried tears and snot.

May looked both upset and relieved that he'd awoken and pet his hair again. This time, he shifted away to avoid her hand and winced at the flash of hurt and guilt on her face.

"I'm fine," he said, smiling plastically, "I missed the movie, though."

"You did. You'll never make it through the whole movie, will you?" Aunt May asked with a laugh, clearly trying for normality.

"I guess not."

Laughing slightly, Peter shifted into a sitting position and nodded at Happy.

"Hey, Happy! Got any of that pizza you were talking about?

The instant slump of relief in Happy's tense shoulders was very telling about how much the man had heard. Though, perhaps Peter was just projecting. Either way, Peter figured that Happy would have to know something was going on.

"Sure, don't mind me. I'm just the personal butler now too, aren't I?"

"Thanks, Happy," Peter said, grinning

"Yes, thanks Happy! Are you sure you don't want us to eat it in the kitchen?" Aunt May called at Happy's retreating back.

"It's fine!" he shouted back, "That living room has seen worse!"

Aunt May leaned back into the fort, sitting criss-cross applesauce on one of the cushions. With Happy gone, the air grew stiflingly uncomfortable for a moment, before Aunt May smiled stiffly as if to dismiss the idea of talking about the elephant in the room.

Peter appreciated it.

"What do you say about trying a different movie this time? How about the Incredibles?" May asked.

"That sounds good."

* * *

The pizza was good. They'd filed out of the pillow fort when Happy had brought out the pizza – settling on the remaining cushions of Tony's obnoxiously large sofa.

After eating nearly a whole pizza, he felt full. Though there was slight discomfort lingering in every interaction, it was almost relieving to see everyone else also fumbling through socializing.

He couldn't hear Tony on the phone anymore, but he assumed he was working on something else to destress. He didn't want to think too much about what Mr. Stark might be doing on the computer to help with the Skip situation, so he ignored the – slightly suspicious – quiet lab.

His phone pinged with a text and he frowned, picking up the appliance in curiosity. He thought he had turned the ringer off.

Ned's name shone out from the small screen and Peter frowned. He'd been neglecting Ned recently, hadn't he? He also needed to mention he'd be staying at the tower for a bit before coming back to school.

'How have u been? Are u busy with internship stuff?' the text read, and he smiled at the noninvasive check-up mixed with the hero fanboy Ned would most likely always be.

'I'm fine. I need to stay at the tower for the next few days, but I'll be back around Wed.' Peter typed back.

':( that sucks. U doing anything fun while away?' - N

'Not really, just need to take a break for a bit.' - P

'Ur not hurt/sick, r u?' - N

'No. I'm fine.' - P

'Alright, good!' - N

'Wanna meet up at my house this Saturday. I got the lmperial Star Destroyer as an early birthday present!' - N

'OMG! No way! That's super expensive!' - P

'YES! I totally want to help!' - P

'Ik! It was on sale and I convinced my mom to get it!' - N

'Awesome!' - P

'Yeah!' - N

'I gtg, but I'll miss u tomorrow! Sucks that you have to miss Decathlon, though' – N

'Yeah, but at least that means I'll also miss the spanish test' – P

'U wouldn't even need to study and you'd get an A, lol. Y worry about spanish when it's AP Lang that's the real monster' - N

'True' – P

Peter tucked his phone back into his pocket, trying to rejoin the conversation between Happy and May before deciding that he would just scroll through Instagram to escape their uncomfortable flirting.

Except, Instagram didn't prove to be a relief either. May turned on the news and, though no one was sure why, Iron Man was flying over Queens. It appeared that Tony hadn't just stopped making noise in his lab – he'd left the tower entirely.

In his suit.

Knowing Mr. Stark, Peter could only assume things would get worse before they got better.

(When Peter Parker was 16-years-old, he found that some parts of him were immutable – fixed points of his being insusceptible to change.)


End file.
